


Feds, Felons, and Pie

by sesshachan



Category: Criminal Minds, Supernatural
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Counter curses, Curses, Demons, Frustration, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Rossi, Hurt Sam Winchester, Little Spencer is adorable, They can't seem to catch a break, Unnecessary damage to the Impala, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 22:08:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 79,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3357020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sesshachan/pseuds/sesshachan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was just another case, until Spencer got cursed. Now he looks four years old and they have no idea who cursed him. Thankfully Spencer knows people.</p>
<p>Who you gonna call?</p>
<p>Winchesters!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This actually started as a mash-up of two shorts I did a while back. It kinda... grew.
> 
> Hope that you like. Please note that I am Canadian, and so if the spelling seems weird, that's probably why. Also, other than what i get from TV, I know very little about how things work in the US. If I got something wrong, please forgive me.

_One Year Ago_

Sam Winchester's photo was displayed on a printout next to one of his elder brother, Dean. That single sheet of paper was the first item in the first folder in a box labeled _'DW SW: Research'_ that Spencer Reid had sitting beside his desk at home. The Winchester brothers were something of a hobby for the young FBI Behavioral Analyst. After spending all day working to catch the worst that humanity has to offer Spencer found it fun (and yes, he had been teased by Morgan already) to see what he could find on the two brothers that seemed to just keep coming back from the dead. Nothing that he found on them seemed to add up with what he knew about the (dangerously) mentally unbalanced, not to his satisfaction.

The original FBI agent that had taken their case had left behind incomplete notes after he died. Using Henrickson's work as a starting point Spencer started from when Dean and Sam got back together – the fire at Stanford that killed Sam's girlfriend, Jessica Moore. From there he looked at _everything_. Crime scenes, witness accounts, trace forensics, and even the events _leading up to_ the Winchester's arrival in town. He noticed a surprising trend: in nearly every case people were dying _before_ the Winchester brothers came to town and those deaths stopped not long after Sam and Dean arrived. That did not jive with Henrickson's pet 'serial killer' theory. No, _vigilante_ fit them much better.

Somehow (well, not really since he knew exactly how the events had transpired) Spencer had shifted his research focus from what the Winchester brothers had done onto the sort of strangeness that tended to bring them to town. At first it was slow, he did not know what to look for. Then he noticed the mythology correlations in the Winchester cases and everything seemed to snap into place.

There were _so many_ strange killings and deaths that fit with classical myths from all around the world. Spencer was shocked into utter stillness for longer than he would admit.

Spencer decided that he needed a little help. Explaining everything to Penelope took a whole weekend. By the end he had her promise that she would try to track down phone numbers, credit cards, and their car's license plate for him. Penelope was cheerfully adamant that between the two of them (the best of the best in the FBI, as she put it with mock humility) they would have the Winchester's personal phone numbers in no time at all. Surprisingly enough, she had been right. One month after joining forces Penelope passed him a neon green flower-shaped post-it note with five cell phone numbers on them. She explained briefly that they were _all_ theirs. Spencer just bit back a grin and thanked her.

“Think nothing of it, Junior G-man,” she breezed, “let's just say that you owe me a favour.”

Content to leave it at that, Spencer left work that day thinking about the phone numbers hidden away in his satchel.

That evening Spencer picked up his personal phone, looked at the file folder of research and newspaper clippings on his desk, and dialed the first number.

 

*

 

_Now_

 

“Now this is just ridiculous,” complained the youngest BAU team member. He scowled at his teammates, crossing his thin arms over his just-as-thin chest. So much for the (meager) muscle that he had managed to put on over the last few years.

“Reid?” Derek breathed. He looked stunned. Well, Spencer noted with asperity, _everyone_ looked stunned.

“Yes, it's me.” Oh, for the love of Pete, there was that soft palate lisp again. It had taken _years_ to grow out of that.

“You're little,” Penelope observed. She reached out a hand and tentatively stroked his head.

Spencer sighed. “Do you have a mirror?” he asked the room in general. Penelope quickly fished one out of her handbag and passed it to him. Flipping the compact open, Spencer examined his face. He sighed and handed the compact back. “I seem to be four again.”

“How did this happen?” Hotch asked, still visibly trying to grasp the recent events.

“Witches, I'll bet,” Spencer said, shrugging his little shoulders.

“Witches?” Derek asked, a black eyebrow rising high in skepticism.

Spencer shrunk into himself. “I knew there was something odd about this case. We might want to pull back for a bit, give them some room so they don't do anything to you guys as well. They can get _really_ nasty when provoked.”

“Witches?” Hotch echoed Derek, his heavy gaze demanding more.

“Yeah, witches are real, and really evil – like, literal-deals-with-literal-demons evil,” Spencer looked like he wanted to cry.

“Witches are real? Like really real? Like, so much magic mojo _and they're evil_?” Penelope looked heartbroken. Spencer patted her hand sympathetically.

“Does someone have my phone?” he asked. “I think we need a consultant for this.”

“Who?” Hotch asked cautiously.

Spencer grimaced. “Someone who deals with this kind of stuff,” he tried to hedge.

“ _Who_ , Reid?” Hotch pressed. Derek found Spencer’s phone and tried passing it to him.

“Not that one, my personal cell,” Spencer directed, not looking his boss in the eye. Derek found the right phone but hesitated handing it over, looking between Hotch's marble-cold glare to his suddenly-four-years-old-again friend.

“Hotch,” he said gently, “this is _so_ beyond what we normally deal with.”

Garcia made a soft noise and knelt in front of Spencer. “Who do you want to call, Reid?” she asked gently. Spencer tried to hide it but he could feel his eyes fill with tears born of fear and frustration.

“Sam and Dean,” he admitted, barely a whisper. Understanding flooded Penelope and she looked nervously up at Hotch, who had heard the quiet admission. His unyielding stare gained a tint of question.

“Who are Sam and Dean, Reid?” he asked, gentling his voice a little.

Spencer uncurled his body a little and stared up at Hotch. He reached out and took one of Penelope's hands and wrapped his little fingers around two of hers. She wrapped her other hand around his and gave him a squeeze. “Sam and Dean Winchester,” he said. “Wanted for grave desecration, murder, arson, vandalism and sundry other charges that they really shouldn't have been charged with.”

“Criminals?” Derek crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. Hotch was frowning too. Spencer pressed forward.

“They hunt down dangerous supernatural creatures,” he explained, feeling a desperate need to make Derek and Hotch understand. “I was looking into their case as sort of a hobby, you know, because it just didn't add up. They got blamed for so many things that were happening _before_ they even arrived in town and when they did arrive, yes, _sometimes_ things escalated, but then _the killings stopped_. They weren't _causing_ the deaths they get blamed for, they're stopping them. But the problem is – and I _have_ done my research on this and I _have_ gotten proof – is that everything they hunt _is not human_. Hotch, please, they've helped me before and they're _good people_. Can we at least call and see if they can... offer advice?”

Hotch did not say anything for a long while. Spencer tightened his hand around Penelope's, nervous about what Hotch would say. He really did not want to go behind his boss's back for help, but he would. So help him, he would.

Finally Hotch nodded, an abbreviated jerk of his head. Derek passed Spencer his phone. “Put it on speaker,” Hotch directed as Spencer entered the number from memory. Spencer did as he was asked and held the ringing phone gently in his lap.

_“Hello?”_ answered a gruff male voice after three rings.

“Dean?” Spencer said.

_“Who is this?”_ Dean asked, obviously confused.

“Dean, this is Spencer Reid,” Spencer's gaze flicked up to Hotch and Derek briefly. “I got into a little trouble. Maybe a lot of trouble, actually. Re you in the middle of a case? Can you consult now?”

_“Spencer Reid?”_ Dean sounded clearly disbelieving. _“Right. How old are you kid?”_

Spencer sighed. “Dean, it's me, Spencer. The first case I sent your way was a kappa that was drowning people in a river outside of Tacoma, Washington. You gave me Garth's number so he could give it to someone closer to the region and to better disseminate any other cases I found. Sam and I are playing chess by email. I think I got whammied by a witch and I'm now four years old again.”

There was a long moment of silence from Dean. Then another voice joined the conversation. _“Spencer?”_

“Hey Sam,” Spencer greeted, trying not to sound like he wanted to cry. Being four again was terrible for his ability to maintain a level of professional maturity.

_“How did you manage to get tangled up with witches?”_ Sam asked.

“I'm not certain that it _is_ witches,” Spencer admitted. “I think it has to do with a case that my team and I are working on right now.”

_“Your team?”_ Sam asked.

_“Case?”_ Dean followed up.

“I, uh, yeah,” Spencer stammered. “I'm part of the Behavioral Analysis Unit with the FBI.”

_“You're a_ Fed _?”_ Dean exclaimed. He sounded betrayed. Spencer winced. _“Dude! Not cool!”_

“Dean, please,” Spencer pleaded. “I promise I wasn't trying to trick you. I wasn't setting up any kind of entrapment scheme either. Not once when I contacted you was I acting as an FBI agent. You have to believe me!”

Muffled conversation emanated from Spencer's phone. The voices were harsh and rapid. Finally, they came to a resolution.

_“Send Sammy the details,”_ Dean instructed. _“Where are you?”_

“Washington, DC,” Spencer answered. “Local PD gave this one to us.”

_“Anyone else know what happened to you?”_

“Just my boss, Penelope, and one other member of my team,” Spencer answered, looking up cautiously, unsure whether he was permitted to give out Derek and Hotch's names. Penelope was already known.

_“They gonna be okay with us or do you want we keep out of sight?”_

Spencer tilted his head as he looked at Hotch, asking silently what he wanted. Hotch answered for himself.

“I would much rather meet you in person, Mr. Winchester,” he said.

_“Alright,”_ Dean said after a pause. _“Just one question: you plannin' on arresting us when we show or will we actually be allowed to do our job and help Spencer?”_

“I plan on extending you the benefit of the doubt,” Hotch said carefully. “Spencer seems to think that you are trustworthy. I trust his judgment.”

_“That's good to hear,”_ Dean said. He sounded just a little approving. _“You still there, Spencer?”_

“Yes,” Spencer shot his boss a pathetically grateful look. Hitch just nodded and closed his eyes briefly.

_“You hang on there, kid, you got that. Sammy and I are only a couple days out. You send what you got to Sammy and try to keep out of sight. Don't know how you're going to explain being four again. You got someone you can stay with? Or can stay with you?”_ Dean sounded honestly worried. Spencer flushed.

“I can take care of myself, Dean,” he protested.

_“Not sayin' you can't,”_ Dean said with a surprising amount of sympathy. _“Just that there's a lot of things that a four year old can't reach without help. Be safer and easier if you had someone taller than you around until we can get you sorted, you know what I'm sayin'?”_

Spencer grimaced but acknowledged the wisdom of Dean's words.

“You can stay with me,” Penelope offered gently. Spencer squeezed his eyes shut and nodded.

_“Look,”_ Dean spoke again, _“How about we call you when we roll into town. We can meet up then and go over everything, okay? See you in a few days, alright? And keep out of trouble. Best if you just back off and lay low 'till we get there, you understand?”_

“I know. I will,” Spencer promised. He could at least restrict himself to research with Penelope.

“We'll restrain out investigation until we have a better understanding of what it is we're dealing with, Mister Winchester,” Hotch announced.

_“Well look at that, a Fed with sense,”_ Dean drawled. _“You do that, Agent, and try not get yourselves killed.”_ And the called ended.

“Reid,” Derek said, his voice low and dangerous, “you have a lot of explaining to do.”

Spencer closed his eyes and tried to swallow the lump in his throat.

“I know.”


	2. Chapter Two

Spencer ended up staying with Derek in the end. They returned to Spencer's apartment to pack a few necessities (toothbrush, comb, things like that) before stopping by the closest Target to pick up a few changes of children's clothing. Spencer was not happy about the need, but he submitted himself to the indignity of wearing a Hulk tee-shirt.

“I'd rather have one with the Doctor on it,” he muttered, staring down at the lurid green printing and picture.

“I'd rather have you taller again,” Derek sighed. “Who knew that our good Doctor Reid used to be so _little_.”

Spencer bit back a retort and instead just hunkered down in the shopping cart where he was riding (walking too long while trying to keep up with the pace of an adult was surprisingly exhausting – something he had not recalled). “I'll just be glad when Sam and Dean get into town,” he said softly. “I'm not even sure where to start with witches.”

“How about you tell me what you know about them,” Derek suggested as he threw a package of children's socks into the cart beside Spencer. Spencer looked at the socks and handed it back.

“Not these kind, I don't like how they feel. Are there any one with fun pictures?” Derek smiled, shook his head, and put the package of socks back on the rack.

“Let's see what they have. Now tell me about witches.”

Spencer took a moment to organize his thoughts. “The term 'witch' is a general title. Witches can be either male or female, although they usually tend to be women. Warlock, the term for a male witch, is used, but Hunters tend to be pretty informal about things like that. Witches are people that have made some form of deal with a demon, wittingly or unwittingly, in exchange for 'magic' power. This demon is referred to as the coven's 'power source.' Oh, can we got those ones? I like the stripes.” Spencer pointed to the socks he meant and Derek obligingly handed him the package.

“Any others?” Derek asked, amused.

“Yes, the ones with polka dots there, and the blue argyle ones too,” Spencer said. “Thank you.”

“Okay,” Derek said after he handed the rest of the socks to Spencer. “Witches make deals with demons for power. Let's pretend that makes sense. What else?”

“There are usually several human witches around their power source, in what is called a coven. Most times the witches don't know that one of their number is a demon. After a while – and I'm not one hundred percent certain how long because sources are pretty vague – witches can become powerful enough that they do not need to be around the power source on a regular basis. One recent report dated a married witch couple at a couple hundred years old,” Spencer said.

Derek shot him an incredulous look, his black eyebrows raised high. “You're kidding me,” he said.

“Apparently they were very adept at changing their identities,” Spencer shrugged. “They were only caught out when they started throwing magic around during a martial spat. People died and really strange things were happening around them as a result of their spells.” Spencer sighed. “Push the cart over there and I'll pick out my own underwear, thanks.”

“Strange how?” Derek asked.

“Olives in martinis turning into eyeballs, for one,” Spencer said blandly. “Cupcakes with tiny beating hearts in their centres.”

“That's disgusting,” Derek said with feeling.

“Mostly it's razors in stomachs or horrible accidents. Most witches don't really last all that long. Infighting in the covens tend to thin them out before they get too powerful on their own. And their spells can be broken if you can locate the hex bag that they planted close to their victim and burn it.”

“Okay, hold on a moment. What's a hex bag?” Derek asked.

“A hex bag is a small bag containing the components for a spell, such as the bones of an unborn infant, certain plant matter, tokens of significance, et cetera. They act as the catalyst for the spell itself. Find the hex bag, burn it – it has to be burned – and the spell has been frustrated. Are we done yet?” Spencer whined. Derek smiled at his tiny coworker.

“Yeah, sure. We're done. Let's just get through the checkout then we can head back to my place. Pick up some dinner on the way there?” Derek suggested.

Spencer shrugged. He didn't really care. It had been a full day since he had called Dean. He wasn't sure where they were driving from (and they certainly were driving it was one thing about the Winchesters that you could say as absolute gospel) but he hoped that it was not too far from DC. Being four again sucked and he was not too old at over thirty to pout over it. There were some things in life a man should be allowed to pout over no matter his age and being physically regressed to hardly shy of being a toddler again should be one of them.

They made their way through the checkout, Derek smiling at the girl working the till and Spencer leaning against the side of the cart, feeling out of sorts and very bored. He slipped his phone out of his pocket and checked his messages. Nothing of interest. Hotch had pulled their team back from the case. Not off, just back. They were still looking into leads but purely in paperwork, nothing physical until they could clear things up with Spencer’s 'situation.'

Getting through the till seemed to take an age. Derek and the cashier chatted amiably (the girl was a terrible flirt – how did Derek _do_ that? Women just loved him!) which only dragged the ordeal on further. By the time Derek was pushing Spencer and their purchases (Spencer's purchases. Derek had used Spencer's card to pay) out of the massive store Spencer was twitching with the need to do something.

“You okay there, Reid?” Derek asked. Spencer shrugged his thin little shoulders. Derek eyed him for a moment longer before opting to let it go for the moment. They found Derek's truck and unloaded the bags and Spencer. Then Derek half-heartedly returned the cart to its collection stall before getting into the truck himself.

“Just not Chinese, okay?” Spencer asked. Derek looked at him in the rear view mirror for a moment, trying to parse his meaning. Understanding was not to long coming. Spencer was famous amongst his friends for not being able to use chopsticks. Derek smiled.

“How does Italian sound?” he offered.

Spencer laughed. “Rossi would never forgive us, eating Italian that he didn't make himself.”

“What Rossi don't know, can't hurt,” Derek said. “I know just the place. Does a great take out, too.”

“Sounds good.”

Spencer took his phone out again and considered calling Sam and Dean. No, he decided reluctantly, just wait. Give them time to at least get into the state.

 

*

 

Early the next morning Spencer's personal cell phone rang, waking him from an uneasy sleep. He rolled over and clawed his way out from underneath the blankets that were doing their best to devour him while he was unconscious. They may have even been succeeding. His reach fell short and Spencer ended up scrambling – almost falling – out of his bed in Derek's guest room to reach his phone before it went to voicemail.

“Hello?” he said, pressing it to his ear.

_“Spencer? It's Sam Winchester.”_

“Sam,” Spencer sank to the floor. “Are you in town yet?” His voice sounded small, uncertain. It didn't sound like Dr. Spencer Reid, FBI. It didn't sound like someone who tracked the worst humanity had to offer. It didn't sound like someone who got more PhDs just to thumb his nose in the face of the father who walked out on him and his mother. He sounded like a scared four year old boy.

 _“Yeah, we're in town. How're you holding up?”_ Sam asked, his voice openly concerned.

Spencer curled around his phone. “I'm okay,” he said. “Still little though. No one else has been targeted, as far as I know. Hotch pulled the team back so it looked like we're backing off the active investigation.”

 _“Good,”_ Sam said, _“that's good.”_ He offered to meet Spencer and whoever Spencer wanted to bring ( _But only the cool Feds_ , was Dean's stipulation) at a diner an hour away from Derek's. Spencer agreed, trotting down the hall to bang on Derek's bedroom door. Spencer hung up before Derek opened the door, sleep-fuzzy and confused.

“What is it, Pretty Boy?” he asked with a sigh.

“Sam and Den are in town. They want to meet.” Spencer bounced in place. Derek sighed again, nodding. “Right. Just lemme get dressed. You too. We need to call Hotch.”

“I'll do that. I'll tell him to meet us there,” Spencer volunteered.

Derek grunted something and closed his bedroom door. Spencer trotted back to the guest room and started tugging clothes out of the shopping bags he had dropped in a corner the day before. He fished out a pair of blue jeans and a red tee shirt and pulled them on. After tugging on a pair of striped socks he called Hotch and quickly summarized the call from Sam. Hotch agreed to meet them at the diner in an hour. Not even two minutes later Spencer was bouncing in the front hall, impatiently waiting for Derek.

“Slow down, Reid,” Derek chided from the bathroom when Spencer called to hurry him up. “Just give me a minute. You may not have to shave anymore, but that doesn't mean I don't.”

Spencer made a face but tried to settle. Patience was a virtue of his, most days. He could wait for Derek to finish, it probably wouldn't kill him. Feeling antsy he adjusted the little backpack that hung huge off his shoulders. Inside were tucked most of the things he usually kept in his satchel. Wallet, ID, and now his gun as well since he couldn't carry it on his person. No one had thought to take it from him and Spencer hadn't volunteered it. If things went south he wanted _something_ other than just his impressive IQ for defense. Finally ( _finally!_ ) Derek was ready to go. He had to help Spencer into his truck and Spencer tolerated it out of logic and need.

As Spencer expected it took 57 minutes to drive from Derek's house to the diner. Hotch was waiting in the parking lot by his SUV. Spencer let himself out of the truck, hopping the great distance to the ground carefully and closing the door behind him. He trotted over to his boss.

“Reid,” Hotch said by way of greeting. He looked his usual stoic self. Spencer took a moment to take in the tenseness around his jaw and shoulders.

“They're here,” Spencer said simply. Hotch and Derek both glanced briefly at the 1967 Chevrolet Impala parked a few stalls away.

“Looks like,” Derek agreed.

Spencer jogged to the diner door but was too short to effectively open it on his own. Derek pulled it open and Spencer slipped inside, quickly scanning for the infamous brothers. He saw the back of Sam's head before he saw Dean. They were both crammed into a booth with Dean watching the door. Lighting up at the sight of the Winchesters Spencer spared half a glance for his boss and coworker before hurrying to the booth and hopping up on the bench next to Sam.

“It's so good to finally meet you in person,” he enthused. Giddily amused at the matching shock on Sam and Dean's faces. “I'm Spencer Reid. Thank you so much for coming.”

“Sam and Dean Winchester?” Hotch asked, approaching the booth. Dean got to his feet. Sam didn't, but he was hedged in by Spencer, who wasn't moving. “My name is Supervisory Special Agent Arron Hotchner of the Behavior Analysis Unit of the FBI. This is SSA Derek Morgan. You apparently already know Dr. Reid. He says that you might be able to assist.”

“That's a very long title,” Dean commented, shaking hands with both Hotch and Derek. Sam did likewise over Spencer's head. Dean moved to sit next to Spencer, making both Spencer and Sam scoot over to make room. Hotch and Derek took the other side of the booth. Neither looked pleased to see tiny Spencer wedged between two notorious felons.

“So,” Sam said, clearing his throat, “we looked over the information you sent us.”

“Wasn't much there,” Dean said blandly, idly playing with a spoon.

“It's an active investigation,” Hotch said. “I shouldn't have sent you even what I did. I'm trusting Spencer on this.”

“Well, it's a good thing you did, because I think he's right about the witches. Although I've never seen a witch's spell that was so...”

“Pointless?” Dean suggested. “Obvious?”

“Maliciously benign,” Sam settled on. He glanced down at Spencer. “Sorry, but regressing you until you were, what, two? That's a little odd for a witch.”

“I'm four right now,” Spencer sighed.

“You're _tiny_. That's what matters,” Dean said.

“Look, Spencer, we'll do what we can,” Sam promised. He turned to Hotch and Derek. “But we need to know what your team was looking into. If Spencer and I are right and there is a witch involved you _will_ need us. We're your best chance for getting Spencer back to normal.”

“So I can get fixed?” Spencer asked, tentatively hopeful.

Sam sighed and shook his head. “We're looking into it. I have to be honest, we have _never_ heard of this happening before. I put a few calls out to see if anyone else knows anything like this happening before while we were on the road. So far, nothing. But there're still three or four that haven't gotten back to me.”

“And we're still trying to find Cas,” Dean added.

“Yeah. If anyone knows about this it'd be Cas,” Sam assured.

“Who's Cas?” Derek asked.

“A friend,” Dean said shortly. He glared at Derek, daring him to push. Derek glared back. Sam groaned silently.

“Look, we're doing all that we can,” he said, trying to diffuse the testosterone contest that was brewing. He looked straight into Hotch's eyes. “We're going to do _all_ that we can. Spencer is...” he glanced down at Spencer with a strange look of fondness, “Spencer's a friend.”

“Even if he is a Fed,” Dean mumbled. Sam ignored him.

“And we help our friends when they need it,” Sam continued. “Will you help us so we can help him?”

Hotch leaned forward a little. “What reason do I have to trust you? Your record speaks for itself against you,” he said.

Dean scoffed. “Man, this is why I hate law enforcement.”

“Dean,” Sam said gently. Dean shot him a glare, but withdrew. Sam turned back to Hotch, utterly serious. “Agent Hotchner, how closely have you looked at our files?”

Hotch shared a look with Derek. “I started rereading them after Reid called you two,” he admitted.

“And?” Sam asked with a resigned grimace.

“And I believe that Dr Reid was correct in his assessment of you two,” Hotch said, visibly surprising both Winchesters. They frowned at him, uncertain what he was talking about, so Hotch continued. “Spencer posited that you are not psychopaths, you're vigilantes. It explains the victims' statements and after action reports. With few outliers, the pattern is solid.”

“Wow,” Dean said honestly, “Never thought I'd see the day. Not after Hendrickson, at least, but he had a baptism by fire, so to speak.”

“What happened to Agent Hendrickson?” Derek asked.

“Got possessed by a demon,” Sam explained.

“Tends to make a believer out of a person,” Dean finished with a cold, jaded amusement.

“Demons are really real?” Derek asked, looking a little sick.

“Real as you and me,” Dean said. “Pretty much everything you've ever heard of is real, real and _mean_. Well, except unicorns.”

“Dean,” Sam groaned at Dean's grin.

“What, Sammy? Nothing you ever say will make me believe that unicorns are real.”

“Well, there was that one--” Sam started.

“It was conjured. Doesn't count,” Dean cut in.

Sam rolled his eyes and shrugged at Hotch and Derek. “Besides, if Spencer's filled you in on witches, you already knew that demons would be in the mix as well. So, keeping demons on earth in mind, will you copy us on all the information you have on the case you're working?”

Hotch considered. Spencer held his breath, small hands gripping the edge of the table. Finally Hotch nodded.

“But this cannot be in any way official,” he warned.

“Understood,” Sam said, nodding.

“Don't wanna be on the books working with Feds anyways,” Dean said, gesturing expansively.

“Do you have some place we can meet to go over everything?”

“We have a room at the Motor Inn. Room six,” Sam said.

Hotch nodded. “We'll meet you there.”

“Excellent!” Dean clapped his hands and grinned. “Now for some pie.”


	3. Chapter Three

Later that afternoon Hotch knocked on the door for room six at the Motor Inn. Derek and Spencer stood behind him and to the side, out of the line of fire. A floorboard in the room creaked, the only noise made before the door opened. Dean glanced over the three FBI agents and stood to the side.

“Welcome, Agents,” he said with a vague air of amusement.

“Hi Dean,” Spencer said brightly. “Hi Sam. What are you looking at?” Spencer helped himself to one of the two chairs at the little table and pushed it closer to Sam, who was sitting with his laptop open to a local newspaper's website.

“Hey Spencer. Just the local news,” Sam explained. He pushed a few inches back from the table and smiled briefly at Hotch and Derek. “Glad to see you. Did you bring the files?”

Hotch held up a handful of manila folders. He passed them to Dean. Dean passed half to Sam, flipping open the top folder and absently sitting on the foot of one of the two beds. Derek leaned against the wall between the window and the door, arms crossed over his chest and looming like a dark, disapproving god of chocolate (as Penelope would describe him fondly).

“We were asked to investigate a series of deaths involving people being killed through a variety of means but with one thing in common: they were at home, with their family members in the house, and every single one of the them looked to be pulled apart as if they had been drawn and quartered,” Hotch explained briefly. Sam found a Crime Scene Unit photograph and passed it to Dean.

“Actually,” Dean said seriously as he examined the photo, “just quartered. Whoever did this wanted them ripped apart, literally. Saw something like this once, didn't we Sammy?”

“Yeah, at the LARPing convention,” Sam nodded. “That was a trapped Faerie though.”

“A fairy?” Spencer asked.

“Not a fairy,” Sam corrected. “A Sidhe. Glinda, wasn't it?”

“Gilda. Long story short, someone thought it would be a great idea to bind a Faerie and make it take out the competition. All so that the _idiot_ could get close to Charlie at a Role Playing convention,” Dean scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“Anyways, this doesn't look like Fae work,” Sam said, getting the conversation back on track. “How thoroughly were the crime scenes investigated? Did anyone find any little bags filled with bones and herbs?”

Spencer shook his head. “Nothing like that was found at the crime scenes,” he said. “But then, no one was looking for hex bags.”

“Think we could get in there to see?” Dean asked, looking up at Hotch. “Just to confirm.”

Hotch stared at Dean, weighing his decision. Dean and Sam waited, their expressions open and patient. “I'll see what I can arrange,” Hotch finally said.

Sam and Dean nodded. “Thank you Agent Hotchner,” Sam said earnestly.

“Have you found any sort of connection between the victims?” Dean asked, going back to leafing through the files.

“Not yet,” Spencer said. “Garcia was looking into it before...” he sighed. “Before I got regressed.”

“Not now?” Dean looked up and frowned a little.

Hotch shook his head. “I pulled everyone back. Paper searches only.”

“Cautious,” Sam nodded. “Good idea. Dean and I'll go through these and see if we can find anything you might have missed. This everything you got?”

“That's everything,” Hotch said, nodding once. “And I can't leave you with those files unattended. I'm sorry.”

Dean frowned and stared hard at Hotch, and at Derek behind him. He shared a glance with Sam, who looked more understanding. “Fine. But you let us research without getting your panties in a bunch about _how_ we do it, deal?”

“Fine.” Hotch glanced at Derek. “Morgan, you stay here with Reid and the Winchesters, alright?”

Derek nodded. “Understood,” he said. Dean rolled his eyes and ignored Derek in favour of reading through the files. Spencer stared up at his boss from his chair. Hotch spared Spencer a fond smile.

“I'll be back,” he said. “I have to check in at the office. Keep me updated.”

“Yes sir,” Spencer nodded. Hotch gave Derek a last meaningful look before letting himself out of the motel room.

Over the next three hours Sam and Dean poured over reports, background information, photographs, everything that had been collected before the investigation had been stymied. Papers spread across bedspreads and tabletop like a creeping moss. Sam obsessively checked facts and news reports on the internet with Dean hanging over his shoulder. They murmured to each other, obviously feeling hemmed in by their FBI guard. Derek, for his part, had turned on the TV and was watching a baseball game on low volume. Spencer was nodding off.

Dean noticed Spencer's fatigue first. He quietly cleared off one of the beds – the one farthest from the door and the mess of research – and turned down the blankets. Then he softly scooped up Spencer and cradled the tiny FBI agent against his shoulder. Sam and Derek watched surreptitiously as Dean gently settled Spencer down on the bed and tucked the covers about him. It was the painfully tender look in Dean's eyes that touched Derek and made him look at the abrasive older Winchester with a more open mind.

When Dean looked up and saw Sam and Derek watching him he tensed. Striding across the room he snatched up his wallet and keys. “Going for some food,” he muttered. The door hardly made a sound behind him despite the haste of his retreat.

Derek looked at Sam. Sam's smile was fond, and just a little heartbroken. “Dean loves kids,” he explained. “He's the one that raised me, you know. Dad was hardly ever around so Dean was the one who looked after me. Later... it's this life, you know. You can't really raise a family in it.”

“Then why do you do it?” Derek asked.

Sam scrubbed a hand down his face and shook his head. “So that people can sleep safe at night,” he said sounding very old. “Because with every monster Dean and I kill there is at least one person that gets to live another day. Because there are good people out there, there are men and women and children who deserve to live peacefully.”

“But not you?” Derek asked after a long moment. He was watching Sam's face carefully. Sam closed his eyes.

“Not right now,” Sam said. “Maybe someday.”

“You'll retire, settle down?”

Sam choked back a laugh. “Dean would love that.”

“What? Retiring?” Derek asked.

“No,” Sam shook his head. “ _Me_ retiring. Dean doesn't see himself living long enough to be able to retire. His goal in life is to see me living a long life filled with kids, grandkids, and prostate exams.”

“And you?” Derek pressed, “What do you see?”

Sam shrugged. He busied himself with his laptop. “Don't know. Doubt I'll be around to find out.”

Derek didn't know what to say. Sam hunched over his laptop like a depressed gargoyle, shifting his attention from the file at his elbow to the screen in front of him. The room fell back into silence as Derek took the blaring hint and left Sam alone. He looked over at Spencer who had curled up on the bed and was breathing deeply in sleep, then turned back the game on the television, keeping half an eye on Sam.

By the time Dean returned with a double handful of burgers and beer (and a milkshake for the now seriously underage Spencer) Sam was almost vibrating with discovery. Before Dean even put the food on the table Sam was explaining the connection he had found.

Apparently Sam had found that the three victims were all involved in the death of a child, Simon Burke. The first victim had been the nanny, the second a paramedic who had failed to revive the child, and the third was the nanny's (married) boyfriend who had been over at the house when Simon had taken a fatal fall down the stairs. Police investigated but had eventually ruled the death accidental, clearing the nanny and her boyfriend of all suspicion.

Clearly this was not enough for someone.

“It's the mom,” Dean announced, chewing through a Biggerson's Big Beefy Burger.

Sam nodded. “We should check her out. Call your boss, Agent Morgan, tell him we got a name for him.”

Derek pulled out his phone and dialed Hotch. Sam suggested waking Spencer, saying that he would like to know what they knew. Dean sighed but shook Spencer's shoulder gently. Fuzzy with sleep Spencer crawled out from underneath the bedspread. He slumped against Dean's side, hiding a yawn behind a fist. Derek watched as Dean rested an artless hand on Spencer's shoulder.

“Talk to me,” Hotch's voice came clearly from Derek's phone, on speaker so the entire room was included.

“Elaine Burke,” Sam said immediately. “She's the only link between our victims.” He quickly summarized the information again.

“It makes sense,” Dean chipped in. “She wants revenge.”

“Only question is why did she shrink Spencer here?” Sam wondered.

Dean shrugged. “Who knows. I say we track her down and ask her.”

Sam spared a moment to shake his head.

“You two stay where you are,” Hotch instructed. “Morgan and I will talk to Mrs Burke.”

“That's not a good idea, Agent Hotchner,” Sam protested. “ _If_  Elaine Burke is a witch you need either Dean or myself with you. We've dealt with witches before, you haven't.”

Hotch was silent on the line for a few seconds. “Fine. Morgan, stay with Sam. Dean, meet me there.”

“Will do,” Dean said. Hotch ended the call. Dean turned to Sam. “Whaddaya think Sammy? Should I change?”

“You might look more credible if you didn't show up in blue jeans and a flannel shirt,” Sam said, agreeing.

Dean shot a cocksure grin at the room in general. “Be back in a minute,” he said. He left the motel room in a flurry of silent motion. Derek looked at Sam.

“Change into what?” he asked curiously.

Sam shrugged. “A suit. We try not to embarrass the Bureau too badly when we can.”

“Ah.”

Dean returned with a garment bag over his shoulder and dress shoes in hand and made a bee-lined for the bathroom. Spencer crept over the bed and found Sam's duffel bag. He saw a book hanging half out and leaned over to fetch it to the bed top so he could read it. Dean came out of the bathroom in a few minutes, cleaned up and looking the part of a respectable man. He looked at Sam and touched his felt lapel.

“Think I'll need this?” he asked.

“Probably shouldn't, but take it anyways,” Sam answered, just as vaguely. “Got Ruby's...?”

“Yeah. Hope I don't need it. You wanna get the stuff for the spell?”

“Looking for a butcher now.”

“And Sammy,” Dean said at the door.

“Yeah Dean?”

Dean took a breath and shot his brother a grin. “Make sure the chicken feet are fresh. Don't need a repeat of that last time, now do we?” He escaped before Sam, or anyone else, could say anything. Sam shook his head and turned back to his computer, looking for a local butcher, as he had said.

“What do you need chicken feet for?” Derek asked.

“It's part of a spell that works against witches,” Sam explained. He pulled out his cellphone and called the first number on his list as the Impala roared to life and left them all behind.

“What does the spell do?” Derek asked, snagging the empty chair and sitting across the table from Sam.

“Renders a witch's powers null,” he said. Then he turned to his attention to his phone, “Yes, hello. I was wondering, do you have any fresh chicken feet? No? Alright, thanks anyways. Have a good day.”

“What language is this in?” Spencer asked from the bed.

Sam looked over and frowned. “Which one?” Spencer held up the book and showed Sam the leather bound and engraved cover. “Aramaic I think. It's not mine. We picked it up for a friend of ours.”

“Can you read it?”

“Bits and pieces,” Sam said with a shrug and dialed the next phone number. “It's not my best language. Hello, I'm looking for chicken feet. Do you know if you have any in right now?”

 

*

 

Dean pulled up to Elaine Burke's split level home, parking behind a black SUV that screamed either Fed or Compensating, Dean couldn't decide which. He got out of the Impala second after Hotch got out of the SUV. Hotch eyed Dean up and down, taking in the trappings of respectability that hadn't been there last time he had seen Dean. Dean smirked.

“Shall we?” he asked, motioning towards the house.

“After you,” Hotch said, hardly raising an eyebrow. Dean headed up the path and rang the doorbell, standing to one side out of habit and checking the windows for motion inside. Hotch was only a step and a half behind him. The behavioral analyst didn't miss any of his companion's actions. “Do you really think Elaine Burke is a witch?” he asked.

Dean shrugged. “Dunno. Gotta feel her out first. If she is, though,” he turned to Hotch, “you let me deal with her, no questions asked. These ain't something you can just shove into a nice little jail cell and expect them to stay there.”

“If she is, we will revisit and decide what to do,” Hotch said firmly. Dean turned back to the door and rang the bell again.

“Man, I don't think she's home,” he complained, checking the windows again. Something caught his eye. “Wait. Aw, this ain't good.”

“What is it?” Hotch asked. Dean ignored him in favour of kicking down the door. Hotch exclaimed in protest, drew his gun, and followed Dean into Elaine Burke's house. Soon enough he saw what had prompted Dean's actions.

“Well,” he said with a tired sigh as he stared down at the lifeless body of their only suspect, “looks like we won't be able to question Mrs Burke.”

Dean swore.

Elaine Burke's body was crumpled on the staircase. There was a blood trail the living room, red hand prints on the bannister and wall. More than enough blood to signify enough blood loss to kill dampened the carpet on the stairs. While Hotch bent down to look for anything that might help him in an investigation, Dean started looking around the house, starting in the living room, for a hex bag. Dean also called Sam.

He got Sam's voicemail.

“We were too late, Sammy,” he said while he worked. “Someone else ganked Elaine Burke before we got here. Take a look into her life, see who else might be trouble. Call me when you got something.”

“What are you doing?” Hotch asked, frowning as Dean sifted quickly through bookcases and little end table drawers.

“Looking for a hex bag,” Dean said shortly. “That there was a classic death-by-curse. Probably the good 'ole razors in the stomach trick. Not nice, very painful, and very effective.” He picked up a framed family portrait. “Now that is just _eerie_ ,” he commented. He turned the photograph to Hotch. “Remind you of anyone?”

Hotch had to agree that the father and the son in the picture bore a uncanny resemblance to Spencer. He said so. Dean replaced the photograph and continued searching drawers and nooks. After a while he announced “It's not here. Check the bathroom. I got the kitchen.” Dean did not allow time for Hotch to protest, striding into the kitchen and starting his search again there.

“I have to call this in,” Hotch said.

Dean shrugged. “Whatever man. Just give us a minute before you do. The last thing we need is to lose a hex bag into crime scene evidence.”

“Would it be dangerous?”

“Not really. They're pretty much just one time use things. But what it's made of might give a hint as to where or who the maker is. It's happened before,” Dean answered. “Nothing in the kitchen. Let's move upstairs.”

Upstairs Dean started with Elaine's bedroom. Upon entry it was obvious that there was no one in Elaine's life that might wonder why she had a cat's skull sitting on her vanity, or why she had bundles of dried herbs littering the surface instead of makeup and jewelry. Dean paused and snorted.

“Well, looks like she wasn't tryin' to hide at all,” he said.

Behind him by only a step Hotch took longer to take in the room. The scene was very nearly identical to other cases where the UnSub was heavily into the occult and black magic. The difference was that Elaine Burke, apparently, actually _was_ practicing black magic where the others either just played at it or truly thought they were. Dean was checking along the baseboards of the bed when he crowed triumphantly.

“Got it,” he declared, holding a dark blue palm-sized cloth drawstring bag in the air. “Alright Agent, call this in. We'll get this back to the motel so Sammy and I can take a look in it.”

“We really should have one of our techs look at it,” Hotch protested even as he dialed to report a suspicious death.

“No way,” Dean said with a shake of his head. “They wouldn't know what to look for. Sammy and I have a better chance than any of your people.”

Hotch did not protest further, but he did not look happy about it. Dean ignored him in favor of looking over the items on Elaine's vanity. Everything was recognizable to him, and together they spelled witchcraft. He made a quick mental list of what was present, then turned and left.

“Where are you going?” Hotch asked.

“Back to the motel,” Dean said sidestepping Elaine's body, careful not to step in the blood. “Ain't no way I'm getting caught at a crime scene by the cops. That leads to all sorts of awkward questions. Later, Agent Hotchner.” He waved a hand over his shoulder as he let himself out of the house. Hotch sighed, but could not argue Dean's point. He heard Dean's car roar to life and rumble away. Now he had to deal with the FBI business of containing and going over an active crime scene.

 


	4. Chapter Four

“I found us some chicken feet,” Sam announced when Dean let himself into the motel room.

“Elaine Burke is dead,” Dean said. Sam deflated a little with a confused scowl. Derek swore, stalking away a few paces looking like a large black jaguar, and Spencer curled in on himself.

“How?” Sam asked.

“Hex bag,” Dean told him, tossing him the bag. “There's more than one witch. We got ourselves a coven, for sure. Oh, and I found out why Mrs. Burke targeted Spencer with this bizarre spell.”

“Why?” Spencer asked, edging closer to Dean. Dean ran a hand over Spencer's hair.

“Sammy, can you find a family photo of the Burkes? This would be better with a bit of show and tell,” he asked his brother.

Sam nodded. “Sure, I can try.” He tapped away at the laptop. “Let me see... yes. Here's one. Oh, wow. How did this get missed?”

“What is it?” Derek asked, crowding close to see what Sam was looking at. Sam turned the laptop so everyone could get a look at what he had found. It was a copy of a wedding photo. The groom looked almost exactly like Spencer had, only with darker hair. Sam clicked to another picture, this one a family shot. Simon Burke was a near clone of the little version of Spencer Reid.

“That is too creepy,” Derek commented.

“She was trying to recreate her son through _me_?” Spencer demanded, confused.

Dean nodded. “Looks like. She took out the people she thought responsible for Simon's death, then, when you guys started sniffing around and she saw you, she...” he trailed off. Sam picked up.

“She saw her chance to pick up again. Don't ask me how she thought she'd pull it off. I mean, you're obviously not Simon, you're Spencer through and through. Maybe she had some sort of, I don't know, mind wiping spell that she was planning on using.” Sam looked uncertain. “Did you find anything like a spellbook in the house?”

“Nah,” Dean shook his head. “Nothing like that. Someone must have got there before Agent Hotchner and me. She was _not_ hiding what she was doing, but there were no books. No witchy books, at least.”

“Too bad,” Sam lamented briefly. “Okay, so we know _why_ Elaine Burke cast her spell on Spencer. We know she was killed by another witch.”

“We should look into her social circle,” Spencer suggested. “See who she interacted with. Maybe we can find her coven that way. We'll probably find her killer there.”

“Look at you,” Dean praised. “Sammy, can we keep him?”

“Shut up, Dean,” Sam said absently.

“No, you can't,” Derek said at the same time.

Spencer just looked uncertain. “Why would you want to keep me?” he asked. “I'm pretty much useless the way I am right now.”

“You're not useless,” Dean protested, “just little.”

“Really little,” Derek concurred. He shook his head like he still couldn't believe his eyes. “We really gotta find a way to get you back to your normal size.”

“Tell me about it,” Spencer muttered, curling into a ball

“Hey, hey,” Dean protested. He squatted down in front of Spencer and looked him in the eye. “Spencer, listen to me, alright? Sam and me, we're going to do everything we can to get you back to normal. _Everything_ we can. I promise. If there is a way to reverse this, we'll find it. You just gotta trust us. This is what we do; it's what we're good at.”

Spencer regarded Dean with solemn eyes. He nodded. “Okay,” he said, and tipped forward into Dean's arms. Dean caught him out of reflex. He darted a quick, startled glance at Sam and at Derek, both of whom looked as shocked as he at Spencer's actions. Derek moved forward and laid a hand on Spencer's shoulder.

“Hey, Reid, you feeling alright?” he asked, concerned. There was a long moment of silence before Spencer shook his head.

“No,” he said, his voice hardly audible. “No, I'm really not.”

Dean tightened his arms around Spencer, one hand resting on the back of his head, pressing him gently closer. Spencer held on, his little hands fisted in the lapels of Dean's suit jacket. Derek crouched down so he was almost level with Spencer.

“Hey,” he said gently, “we're gonna work this out, you hear? You gotta keep positive.”

Dean gave Derek an approving look. Then he hauled himself to his feet, not letting go of Spencer for a moment. “Right,” he said, taking charge, “Sammy, you look into Elaine Burke's friends and whatever. Agent Morgan, do you think you could have one of your people look into the same, just in case we miss someone who might be important?”

Derek nodded slowly. “Our Technical Analyst knows about what happened,” he replied. “She'll be happy to be able to help out.”

“Awesome,” Dean said. “I'm gonna try Cas again.”

“Who's Cas?” Derek asked.

“A friend,” Dean said shortly, holding his phone to his ear. After a moment he sighed and ended the call.

“No luck still?” Sam asked redundantly.

Dean shook his head. “Still not picking up. He probably lost his phone.”

“Well, he _is_ human now,” Sam pointed out.

“I don't want him for a _fight_ ,” Dean growled. He huffed and sat down on the closest bed.

Derek watched the byplay. He pulled out his own phone and hit speed dial. It picked up after one ring.

_“You have reached the temple of the all-knowing oracle of the internet. Speak, o petitioner, and be heard,”_ answered Penelope energetically. Derek watched Sam and Dean as they stared at his phone (deliberately on speaker for just this reason, truth be told) in dumbfounded amusement.

“Hey mama,” Derek answered with a smile. “Got something for you to look into for me and Reid.”

_“Official or off the books?”_ she asked promptly.

“Under the ivy bush,” Derek clarified. “I need you to look into Elaine Burke for us. See what sorts of things she was involved in.”

_“This the person who put the whammy on...?”_ she trailed off uncertainly.

“We think so.”

_“Right. Looking into the life of the Wicked Witch of the West. Be back when I know more.”_

“Thanks Baby Girl,” Derek said and tucked his phone away again.

“She sounds hot,” Dean commented with a hint of a leer. Spencer thumped a fist against his chest.

“Leave Garcia alone,” he mumbled into Dean's collar. Dean conceded with a smile and a roll of his eyes and a too-precise _yessir_. Sam threw a crumpled up paper bag at his head.

After five minutes of tapping on the keyboard Sam leaned forward to read some small print, then leaned back. “So, Elaine Burke,” he said, catching everyone's attention, “apparently had a book club.”

“A book club?” Derek raised an eyebrow. He leaned over Sam's shoulder to look at the screen. “How do you know that? What does that have to do with witches?”

“Facebook,” Sam said, “and covens often tend to meet under the guise of a book club, craft club, whatever gets bored housewives together. This one met every Thursday at two o'clock.” Derek's phone rang and he straightened as he answered.

“Hey Garcia, what've you got for me?” he asked, the phone on speaker once more.

_“So, Elaine Burke. Pretty normal, if you discount the_ actual _black magic. Worked in a dental clinic as a receptionist, husband – dead, son – also dead. Was in a couple clubs and charity groups--”_

“What sort?” Derek interrupted.

_“She volunteered at a food bank once a week. There was a book club every Thursday. A watercolour class, she read to children at the local library,”_ Penelope listed.

“Can you get a list of the people in the book club?” Sam asked. “And the watercolour class.”

_“Who is this?”_ Penelope asked, sounding startled.

“Uh, Sam Winchester,” Sam introduced. “Sorry.”

_“Oh. Oh! Nice to meet you, Sam Winchester, I've read a lot about you. You and your brother. Seen your mugshots too. And the answer to your question is yes, I_ can _find you a list for the book club and the watercolour class. Just give me... a... second. Here we go! Emailing them to you now, Derek. Anything else I can do?”_ She sounded smug.

“Yeah,” Sam said, glancing between Derek and Dean, “check and see if anyone on those lists have had any good breaks lately. Promotions, better jobs, winning lottery ticket. That sort of thing.”

_“Not a problem. Oh. Hey, here's something: Susan Iveson's husband just got promoted to branch manager of the bank he works at, and Judith Hamilton's great aunt left her a_ hefty _inheritance when she passed away two months ago. They're both in the book club with Elaine Burke,”_ Penelope rattled off. Sam and Dean shared a glance.

“Can you get us the addresses of all the book club members?” Dean asked.

_“Baby, I am so far ahead of you I'm in another country. Sam? I sent them to your address as well.”_

Sam checked his email, looking quite impressed. “Thanks,” he said. Penelope accepted the thanks with aplomb and cut the call.

“She's like an FBI Charlie,” Dean said. “So hot in _such_ a forbidden way.”

“Dean,” Sam groaned.

“Charlie?” Spencer asked, face still pressed into Dean's shirt. “You've mentioned her before. Who is he?”

“She. A friend,” Dean told him. “She helped us save the world once.”

“What did she do?”

Dean grinned. “Hacked a computer.”

“She's not really a fighter,” Sam elaborated. “And she found herself in a position where she either helped us or got killed by the monster we were hunting. She swore off all things supernatural after that.”

“Didn't last,” Dean continued. “Now she's off in Oz, helping out the rebellion.”

Derek just stared at the Winchester brothers. “You're kidding,” he said, his voice flat.

“Nope,” Dean said, shaking his head. “It was news to us too, but those _Wizard of Oz_ books? They're real.”

Derek just stared at Dean, then Sam. He shook his head in disbelief. “Right,” he said. Neither Sam nor Dean pushed the issue. It was no matter to them if Derek believed them or not on the whole Oz story. Some days they didn't believe it themselves.

“Leave him alone, Dean,” Sam advised. “Some things are just too... weird.”

“That's true,” Dean muttered. He glanced down at Spencer. “You feeling better there?”

Spencer shook his head. “No. I hate being a kid again. I'm helpless and useless.”

“Dude, it's not your fault,” Dean said.

“I know,” Spencer insisted miserably. “I still hate it.”

Dean sighed. This was not an argument he was going to win any time soon. Better to put it off in favour of the more immediate problem. “We should get on checking out those book club witches. Go grab your suit,” he told Sam. Sam nodded, closed the laptop, and left to fetch his own Fed suit from the car. Dean turned to Derek. “You alright staying with Spencer, or do you want to come along.”

Derek considered. He bent down and put a large hand on Spencer's back. “Hey, Reid, do you think you'll be alright staying here?”

Spencer sighed and looked at his friend. “Yeah. You should go. Just let me know what you find, alright?”

“Of course,” Derek assured him. He reached out and pulled Spencer's head to his shoulder. He pressed his nose into his shaggy hair and took a deep breath before releasing him. Spencer offered him a quavering smile and climbed off Dean's lap. Sam came back in and ducked into the bathroom to quickly change and make himself look respectable. Before long Sam emerged, straightening his tie. He sat on a bed and pulled his shoes on.

Dean got to his feet. He conferred with Sam quietly. Sam ducked down, pulling a duffel bag onto the bed. He took out a bottle and tossed it to Derek. Derek looked it over and shot Sam a questioning look.

“What's this for?” he asked.

“In case we run into a demon,” Sam explained. “It won't do much, just slow it down until either Dean or I can deal with it.”

Derek raised a eyebrow. “'Deal with it?'”

“Preferably by exorcising it,” Sam said with a nod.

Derek sensed something unsaid. “And if you can't?” he pressed.

Dean clapped him on the shoulder as he left the motel room. “Haven't had that problem yet, Agent. You coming?”

Derek spared Spencer once more glance. Spencer didn't notice, he had found another one of Sam's books, this one in English, and was studying its pages. Reassured that Spencer was, for the moment, okay, Derek followed Sam outside. Dean stood inside the open driver's side door of the Impala. He leaned one arm against the top of the car and waited until both Derek and Sam were close before he spoke.

“So, how do we wanna do this? All together, or split up?” he asked.

“Together,” Sam answered with bothering to think on it. “Safer that way.”

Dean nodded and looked over at Derek. “You coming with us, or do you want to take your own ride?”

Derek headed for his truck. “I'll follow,” he said. Dean nodded and slid into the Impala. Sam folded into the front passenger's seat, getting his door closed just as Dean started reversing.

Sam plotted the addresses out on the laptop while Dean drove. They were all grouped together, almost in the same neighbourhood. He called Derek and told him so.

“It's not _that_ surprising,” Dean added. “It's supposed to be a book club. That'd hardly pull from all over the city. Just a bunch'a stay-at-home moms looking for some thrills. 'Cept someone went dark.”

Sam grunted. He checked the map against the list of names. “Let's try Judith Hamilton's first,” he suggested. “She's closest. Take a left at the next lights.”

 

*

 

Judith Hamilton was as tall as Sam, white-blonde, with too-small blue eyes and an aquiline nose pronounced enough that it would lose her any beauty pageant she tried entering. Sam and Dean had given Derek a thirty second heads-up that they were going to pose as FBI Agents themselves before ringing her doorbell. Derek had to swallow his potentially-very-loud protest in favour of a professional facade. Instead he just closed his eyes and counted until he heard the front door open. They all flashed their badges – two fake and one genuine.

“Afternoon Ma'am,” said Dean with the open face of a con man. “I'm Agent Smith. This is Agent Jones and Agent Morgan. Can we ask you a few questions?”

Judith frowned. “What's this about?” she asked mildly.

“It's about Elaine Burke. May we come in?” Sam asked.

“Something happened to Elaine? What happened? _Oh_...FBI? Oh, merciful.... Yes. Come in,” she said, visibly reeling. She stepped aside and motioned for the parlor on the left of the entrance hall. Dean took in the décor as they preceded her. It was a little kitschy, not like anything one might equate with a witch, but Dean knew better than to judge on merit of tacky figurines alone.

Sam entered the parlor and slowed, turning enough to keep Judith in his periphery. It was best not to let a witch out of sight. He waited for her to take a seat in an overstuffed armchair before he sank onto the couch with Dean, leaving Derek to take the other armchair. Derek sat, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together in front of him.

Then Dean sneezed, sort of. “ _Christo,_ ” he said, under cover of the faux sneeze.

Nothing happened. Judith did say _gesundheit_ , though. Dean and Sam shared a brief glance. Derek wondered what that had been all about.

“Ma'am,” Derek said, his expression carefully caring and earnest, “Before we begin we have to inform you that Elaine Burke was killed earlier today in her home.”

Judith stared at him, her eyes wide. A hand lifted and covered her mouth before drifting to rest just above her collarbone. “I just talked to her yesterday,” she murmured. “She's dead? What happened?”

“We can't say, Ma'am,” Derek told her gently. He glanced briefly at Sam and Dean. “It's an ongoing investigation, so we can't discuss the details, I'm sorry. We're just looking around right now to get a better understanding for what happened and why. Can you tell us about how you knew Mrs. Burke?”

“We... we were in a book club together,” Judith said after a moment. “Just some of the ladies in the neighbourhood. We'd get together once or twice a month. Some of us got together more than that... we got to be pretty good friends, you know, once we met.” She took a deep breath, blinking furiously for a few seconds.

Sam leaned forward, smiling in gentle sympathy. “Did you notice anyone who seemed angry with her lately? Maybe someone that made her nervous? Anything out of the ordinary?”

“No,” Judith said immediately. Then she paused, frowning. “Elaine was pretty upset after losing Devon. That was her husband. After losing Simon – her son – she just shut down. I don't think she noticed anyone. We tried to get her out of the house, but she refused to leave. She'd just sit in Simon's room for hours, just staring at nothing. Victoria and I would stop over with meals for her. I think some of the other girls did too. But I didn't notice anyone _mad_ at her.”

“Alright,” Sam said. “What can you tell us about Elaine? What was she like before Devon and Simon died?”

Judith sighed and smiled. It was watery, but there. “Busy. She was always busy with one thing or another. She volunteered in a dozen organizations, mostly at Simon's school. She lived for him. She was such a good mother.”

“Tell us about your book club,” Dean asked. Judith startled and stared at him for a moment.

“The book club?”

“Yeah. Who's in it, what sort of books did you read. That sort of thing.”

“Why?”

“We just want to get a better understanding of the people in Mrs. Burke's life,” Sam explained.

Judith nodded. She looked slightly puzzled, but willing to help. It took an hour to prize a list of names more complete than the facebook group information Penelope and Sam had gotten. Sam made notes while Dean and Derek tossed in questions when needed. Finally, they thanked her politely for her help and left Judith Hamilton and her house behind.

When they reached the end of her front walk, where the Impala was parked on the curb, the Winchester brothers and Derek paused. Dean looked at Sam. “Did you notice?” he asked.

“Yup,” Sam said, nodding slightly. He angled himself so he could casually watch the windows.

“Notice what?” Derek asked.

“The plants out front there?” Dean commented. Derek looked at the pretty little border garden running along the edge of the house. “More than half of those are used in black arts.”

“Inside,” Sam continued, “she had a copper bowl.”

“So?” Derek couldn't see the importance.

“They're used in a good chunk of spellcasting,” Sam told him. “In, like, _all_ , of the ones I know, at least. It’s not, you know, one hundred per cent conclusive, but it sure ups the odds.”

Derek stared at Sam. “You've done _magic?_ ” he asked, disbelieving.

“Just neutral stuff like summoning’s and location spells,” Sam said defensively.

“Summoning what?” Derek asked. He eyed Sam and Dean warily. Dean rolled his eyes and scoffed.

“The King of Hell,” he said with heavy sarcasm. “His name's Crowley, he's British, likes fine liquor and clothes, and he's a bit of a jerk. Can we move on now?”

Derek held up his hands. “Fine. I'm sorry,” he said, backing down. Dean nodded, mollified for the moment.

“She didn't react at all when I said _Christo_ ,” Dean pointed out. “Which only means she's not the demon backing the coven.”

“And she looked honestly upset over Elaine Burke's death,” Sam added. “So she probably wasn't behind that.”

“Wonderful,” Dean sighed. “Who's next on the list?”

 

*

 

Caitlin Jones lived three houses down from Judith Hamilton. Sam, Dean, and Derek walked from Judith's to Caitlin's rather than bother with moving their vehicles. They rang the doorbell. Sam pointed out plants in the front flowerbeds that he knew had magical uses, for hoodoo or for witchcraft, telling Derek what they were used for or what sort of things they represented. Dean ran the bell again, then he knocked on the door. No one answered. Derek checked the windows. Sam and Dean split up and took either side of the house. Sam had the garden gate on his side. Dean's side was fenced off. Sam caught Dean and Derek's attention and jerked his head in the direction of the gate. Dean and Derek followed as Sam let himself through the gate. The Winchesters let their hands drift towards weapons as they walked silently. Their hands lifted in innocent greeting when they startled the woman gardening in the back yard.

“Can I help you?” she asked, getting to her feet and backing away a little.

Sam and Dean plastered on their FBI-faces, smiled professionally, and introduced themselves, flashing their fake badges as Derek flashed his own very real credentials. “Are you Caitlin Jones?” Dean asked her.

“Yes,” she said, taking her gloves off and tucking them into her back pocket. “What's this about?”

“We just have some questions to ask you,” Derek said calmly. “There's been a suspicious death in the neighbourhood. We're just asking some routine questions, if that's alright with you.”

Caitlin's face dropped. “Someone was _murdered_?” she asked, appalled. “Who?”

“A Mrs. Elaine Burke,” Dean informed her. FBI Agent and the hunters watched her reaction very carefully. Caitlin frowned, as if the name did not register in her memory. Then her eyes widened and the colour drained from her face.

“No,” she breathed. “Are you sure?”

Sam nodded. “We are. So you knew her?”

“Yes,” she nodded, crossing her arms just under her bust, hugging herself. “We are... we _were_ in a, a book club. Together. Just a couple of the women in the neighbourhood. We'd get together a couple times a month. I didn't really know Elaine very well. She was... well, _depressing,_ ” Caitlin looked ashamed to admit. “And she was obsessed with her son. I just steered clear.”

Sam asked if she had known of anyone who would want to hurt Elaine. Caitlin shook her head, repeating that she hadn't been very close so she really couldn't say. The questioning continued along that vein. Caitlin didn't know Elaine very well. She couldn't say. She didn't know. Sam faked a cough to cover up saying ' _Christo_ ' but there was no reaction from Caitlin. Finally Dean, Sam, and Derek thanked her and took their leave.

“Well,” said Dean as they reached the sidewalk, “that was a huge waste of time.”

“It was necessary,” Sam said with a sigh.

“What d'ya say, one more?” Dean asked. “Then we pick up Spencer and get some dinner.”

Sam and Derek agreed. Derek called Spencer as they walked back to the cars, checking in. The Winchesters listened to Derek's side of the conversation. Nothing seemed out of place. Spencer was bored and threatening to climb the walls, Derek insisted that he stay in the motel room and not wander away. When he finally hung up Derek ran a tired hand over the back of his neck and sighed.

“Not liking being cooped up, is he?” Dean asked.

“Would you?” Derek shot back.

Dean shrugged, shaking his head. “Been there. Hated it. Sammy here kept bringing me cake instead of pie.”

“Shut up, Dean,” Sam complained halfheartedly.

“I mean, how hard would it have been to just bring back some freakin' pie?” Dean continued with a hardly hidden teasing grin. “It's just – _cake_ , man. Like it's supposed to be better than pie.”

“You're obsessed,” Sam said.

“Not obsessed,” Dean protested quickly. “I just appreciate a good pie. Unlike some sasquatches I know.”

Sam scoffed. They reached the cars and Sam ducked his head in just long enough to fetch his laptop. He opened it up on the roof and pulled up his list of names and addresses for the book club members. They consulted briefly which woman they should interview next. There was one woman two streets north, and another three streets east. After checking the address they decided to visit Susan Iveson, two streets away.

“You should check in with your boss,” Sam suggested to Derek as the FBI agent climbed into his truck. Derek agreed.

Dean slid in behind the wheel of the Impala and waited for Sam to fold himself into the passenger's seat before he turned the ignition and pulled out onto the street. “So, what do you think?” Dean asked.

“About what?”

Dean gestured expansively. “This whole case. Witches, de-aging – _de-aging_ man! No one we've talked to has even heard of that kind of thing. I mean, sure there's plenty of stay-young-forever kinds of spells, but _de-aging_ someone else? That's a new one.”

“I don't know,” Sam said slowly. “Witches are usually pretty selfish, right? So you got all the youth and beauty spells. But regressing someone else... that's either supposed to be a kindness or the worst sort of curse, I guess. Depending on who it was cast on and why.”

“Well, I think Elaine Burke was just round the bend. Plain nutso,” Dean said. “What was she thinking? The she could just shrink Spencer and pretend that he was her dead son? He wouldn't go along with that – he might be tiny, but he's still an adult in there. Mostly.” Dean frowned.

“I don't know, Dean. Maybe there was a second part that Elaine just didn't get to. Maybe she was going to, I don't know, wipe Spencer's memories and try to start from scratch.”

Dean shuddered. “That's twisted.”

“Never said it wasn't.” Sam sunk back into the familiar seat and stared out the window.

In a couple of minutes Dean pulled the car over and parked. He nodded his head at a house directly across the street. “Possible witch number three,” he said. “You ready?”

Sam answered by climbing out of the car. They only had to wait a minute for Derek, then the three of them want to interview Susan Iveson.

 

*

 

Spencer was beyond excited to see them when they returned. Derek had called to say that they were on their way, and when they arrived, Sam called to tell him it was alright to unlock the door. Sam, first through the door, was assaulted by a knee-high genius who wrapped his thin little limbs around the hunter's leg so firmly that Sam almost tripped. Dean, amused at the startled, wide-eyed expression Sam was sporting, shouldered his way past. Derek did likewise, albeit more politely.

“Long day?” Dean asked, crouching down to be better able to look Spencer in the eye. Spencer nodded, releasing Sam's leg and moving to Dean.

“Can you pick me up?” Spencer asked quietly. “I don't like being short. I can't see or reach anything anymore.”

“Sure thing,” Dean said. He held his arms out for Spencer. Spencer shuffled close and tucked himself under Dean's chin, lopping his arms around Dean's neck. Dean stood, one arm under Spencer's bum and one hand splayed on his back. Spencer sighed and rested his head on Dean's shoulder, looking forlornly at Derek and Sam.

“It's been a long day,” he finally admitted.

“How're you holdin up?” Derek asked gently.

“Sam has interesting books,” Spencer admitted. “It wasn't that bad. What did you find out?”

“Not much,” Sam admitted, grimacing. “We have some theories, but nothing concrete right now. But there's still four more book club members that we have to look at, so, you know, it's still early days.”

“We're going to head out for some dinner,” Dean told Spencer. “Call it a day. You staying with someone?”

“Yeah,” Derek said. “He's with me.” Spencer nodded, confirming the declaration.

“They won't let me stay at my place,” he complained.

“That's a good idea,” Dean told him. “Better to have someone watching your back.”

Spencer sighed heavily, but didn't protest. He knew that to be true, after all. “Are Hotch and Garcia coming for dinner too?” he asked instead.

“We should tell JJ and Rossi as well,” Derek said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Let the rest of the team know what's going on. If this thing is persistent, they're going to need to have a better explanation than you're 'sick' otherwise you know they're going to investigate on their own.”

“Who're JJ and Rossi?” Sam asked.

“What about Blake?” Spencer asked.

“Blake's out of town on vacation,” Derek told Spencer. “JJ and Rossi are two of the remaining three in our team that don't know about Reid's condition.”

Spencer scoffed quietly. “Condition.” Dean absently rubbed his back. Spencer tucked himself more firmly into Dean's shoulder. “Fine,” he conceded. “You're right. But... does it have to be right now? Can we tell them tomorrow?”

Derek's expression softened slightly as he nodded, looking sympathetic and fond. “Sure thing,” he promised. Spencer smiled at him.

“So,” Dean said, “who's up for some dinner?”

“I'll call Hotch and Garcia,” Derek told them. “You got a place you wanna go, Reid? Or do you want to eat in?”

“I know some good diners,” Dean offered.

“No diners,” Spencer declared. “Let's eat in.”

“Dean's a good cook,” Sam chipped in. Dean grinned. Before recently – before finding the Men of Letter's bunker of Batman-level awesomeness – Dean hadn't had many opportunities to cook. There had been that year with Lisa and Ben, which Dean had taken advantage of and learned more than what a few minutes of Food Network and a box of Mac and Cheese could teach. Now that he had put down roots Dean found that he really loved owning the kitchen.

“Aw,” Dean teased, “someone has to keep you fed, Sammy.” Derek rolled his eyes at them and stepped out to call Hotch and Penelope.

“Can you make pie?” Spencer wondered. Given Dean's live for pie it would make sense.

Dean grimaced. “Not yet,” he admitted. “Pastry – it's harder than you'd think.”

Spencer smiled and patted Dean's collarbone sympathetically. “If you play nice with Morgan he might give you his mother's recipe,” he said.

“Not likely,” Derek called from outside. Sam bit back a laugh.

“There's hope,” Spencer moderated. “A chance.”

“Like a snowball in Hell?” Dean asked.

“So,” Sam said abruptly, changing the subject, “where are we eating?”


	5. Chapter Five

It was decided from on high – that would be Hotch – that the team would meet at the home of their fearless leader – again, Hotch – for an impromptu dinner party-slash-debriefing. Spencer was loaded into Derek's truck. Hotch's address was given to Sam and Dean. Derek told them that he would be a little late, that he had to stop and pick something up along the way. Then they were off.

The drive was silent, for the most part, broken by Sam giving directions through the city to the suburb where Hotch's house was. There were already a couple of cars parked out front. Dean pulled over a couple houses down where there was parking along the curb. They got out of the car and walked to the Hotchner home together, still resplendent in their Fed suits, forged credentials burning in their pockets.

“We should have changed,” Dean muttered as Sam rang the doorbell.

“Too late for that now,” Sam said.

“Think they'll arrest us?”

“Hope not. We're trying to help, after all.”

The door opened and a casually dressed Hotch greeted them. “Where are Morgan and Reid?” he asked as Dean and Sam stepped inside.

“Morgan had to make a stop,” Dean told him.

“Ah. Well, come on in,” Hotch directed them to the living room where a cute blonde was chatting with Penelope. “JJ, this is Dean and Sam. Dean, Sam, this is JJ... and this is David Rossi. Dave, meet Dean and Sam. Morgan and Reid should be here soon.”

Dean shook hands with Rossi, who eyed him and Sam warily. JJ waved a hand and smiled, looking confused but professionally polite. Sam shifted his weight from foot to foot uncomfortably, looking like he was ten seconds away from bolting. Dean pointed him towards an empty space on a sofa. Sam sat.

“So,” Rossi said casually, “what do you and your brother do, Mister...?”

Dean smiled tightly. He could see Hotch over Rossi's shoulder in the kitchen, looking stressed. “Oh, a bit of this and that,” he said vaguely. “We're friends of Spencer's.”

“Good for you. You didn't answer my question,” Rossi pointed out.

“Dave,” Hotch called, “play nice. Explanations can wait until Morgan gets here with Reid.”

Rossi hummed under his breath but backed down. A little. Dean eyed him and moved closer to the girls, careful not to turn his back on the Italian-American. Sam was still sitting uncomfortably. Penelope was blithely chatting about... something with JJ, who was shooting Sam and Dean occasional looks, obviously wondering who they were and why they looked familiar but willing to follow her boss's lead.

Neither Winchester was looking forward to _that_ explanation. It was bad enough dealing with actual law enforcement _before_ their evil Leviathan dopplegangers went on a blatantly unashamed cross-country murder spree. This was just going to be messy.

“So,” JJ said, turning slightly so she was better facing the Winchesters, “how do you know Spencer?”

“Ah,” Sam shot Dean half a glance. “Research, actually. He'd found some things that he thought we'd be interested in and gave us a call. It kinda snowballed from there. Me and him have been playing chess online for a while now, and he likes to email Dean.”

“So you're online friends?” JJ asked, for clarity.

Sam shrugged. “I guess?” He shot Dean a questioning look. Dean pulled a face.

“Don't look at me. You're the nerd. You'd know more about 'online friends' than me,” he teased. Sam glared and muttered something uncomplimentary about his brother.

“We've been chatting back and forth for a while now,” Sam continued. “So you work for the FBI too?”

“Did Spencer tell you that?” JJ asked.

“It was mentioned,” Dean shrugged. “So you guys all chase down bad guys, the worst humanity and the United States has to offer. What's that like?”

“It's... hard,” JJ admitted. “But rewarding. It's good to know that with every criminal we put behind bars we're saving everyone they could have killed if we didn't catch them.”

Sam and Dean nod slowly. “Yeah,” Sam said, “bet that's a nice thing to know. You like the job, then?”

JJ smiled gently and nodded. “It's worth it.”

“So, how did your day go?” Penelope asked.

Dean grinned at her. “You, Penelope Garcia, are a goddess of the technical age,” he told her. Penelope beamed at him.

“I know,” she said, “but please, do go on.”

“So far that list you gave us has been spot on. We've only talked to three of them so far, and nothing damning has come up yet, so whatever else you can find, beautiful, would be _greatly_ appreciated.” Dean winked. Penelope fluttered, more than pleased with the praise.

“Oh, you,” she cooed happily. “What sort of things should I be looking for?”

“Purchases,” Sam said.

“Anything from an occult shop, herbs, strange orders at the butcher's,” Dean explained.

“Ebay, Amazon,” Sam continued. “Anything online that looks not-normal.”

“And phone records, too, if you can,” Dean finished. “See how much they're talking and who they talk to the most.”

The doorbell rang. Rossi peeled himself away from the wall he had been leaning against and answered it. JJ and Penelope turned to see who it was. Derek stepped in, shedding his jacket and hanging it casually on a hook. Behind him Spencer edged inside, staring apprehensively up at Rossi and over at JJ.

“Hey guys,” Derek said casually. He looked down at Spencer. “Why don't you go sit with Sam and Dean.”

Spencer nodded gratefully and darted toward the Winchester brothers. He scrambled up onto Dean's lap and claimed one of the hunter's hands as his own. Dean ran his fingers through Spencer's hair.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

Spencer tightened his grip on Dean's thumb and nodded. “Yeah.”

“Who's this?” Rossi asked. “Did anyone else know Reid had a kid?”

“Not his kid,” Spencer protested. “Rossi, it's me, Spencer.”

They stared. “Spence?” JJ asked.

Spencer nodded. “It's a long story, JJ,” he told her.

“I can see that,” Rossi agreed, still frowning. “Anyone care to explain what's going on?”

Spencer heaved a sighed. When he didn't say anything Sam opened his mouth. Rossi shut him down forthwith with a decisive “Not you.” Sam subsided before he even realized he'd been ordered around. Dean snorted.

“Where should I start?” Spencer asked.

“How about at the beginning,” Rossi suggested. He perched on the arm of the sofa beside JJ and casually folded his arms over his chest.

“You were looking into me and Sam,” Dean prompted.

Spencer nodded. “Right. Well, I was trying to take my mind of things,” he started, his expression falling a bit. “Maeve's death... it's still hard. So I was looking at some old, cold profiles, specifically the Winchester brothers.”

“That'd be us,” Dean offered. He kept his body loose and nonthreatening even as he watched the reaction his declaration garnered. Rossi's eyes narrowed in on them, his posture shifted in anticipation of a possible fight. JJ jerked as if she'd been goosed. She gaped at Sam and Dean, her mouth open and closing.

“In our defense, it wasn't us that killed all of those people a couple years back,” Sam told them. “It's a long story, but it's not really all that far off to say that they were our evil twins.”

“I assume you have proof,” Rossi said coolly.

“I do,” Spencer told him.

“The _Winchesters_?” JJ finally exploded. She was glancing about the room, obviously floored at how _no one_ was acting worried about having two lifelong, hardened criminal psychopaths in the living room, just waiting for dinner like they belonged there with everyone else.

“JJ,” Spencer tried to say, “they're not bad people, really. They just look that way because no one ever had the whole picture.”

“They're murderers!” JJ exclaimed. “Doesn't that worry anyone here?”

“Hey,” Dean protested, “we don't kill people.”

“JJ,” Hotch broke in, “Calm down. Breathe. Let Spencer explain what happened. Then, if you still feel the need, you can freak out.”

JJ stared at her boss, shocked momentarily mute. She swallowed, nodded, and stiffly subsided, eyeing Sam, Dean, and little Spencer warily. Spencer shrank a little under the unfamiliarly cold expression that was directed at him. Penelope cooed at him sadly, putting a gentle hand on JJ's shoulder.

“I was looking into Sam and Dean,” Spencer confessed again, much quieter this time, not looking at JJ or Rossi. “They didn't make sense and I wanted to make sense of them. It wasn't until I looked into what was going on in the places that there reports of their sightings that things started coming together. I talked to witnesses, sheriff's departments, newspapers – everyone even tangentially involved that I could find. I... I have everything at home. You can look it over if you want. But what I found convinced me that the Winchesters weren't a pair of psychopaths working together.”

“No?” Rossi asked evenly, raising an eyebrow at them.

“It took some research,” Spencer admitted, shifting nervously. “And I really had to put aside my skepticism. After all, they're not supposed to be _real_.”

“What aren't?” prompted Rossi.

“Monsters. Vampires, and werewolves, and ghosts, and demons,” Spencer said, looking Rossi in the eye. “They're actually real.”

Silence threatened to smother Spencer as he pleaded without words for his friends to believe him. It was hard to read Rossi, the man's expression was shuttered tight. JJ, on the other hand, was openly confused and skeptical.

“Fairytale monsters are real?” JJ asked. “I think we'd have noticed if they were actually real.”

“They really are, Jayge,” Spencer asserted.

“It's amazing what the human mind can rationalize,” Dean commented. “Wild dog attacks, psychotic breaks, cannibalism. Sometimes, the freaky really is freaky. That's when Sam and I come in.”

“They're called Hunters,” Spencer told JJ. “They track down and deal with supernatural trouble, a bit like we do. According to rumours – and they've never confirmed this for me – they even have an angel that works with them.” Spencer twisted around and looked up expectantly at Sam and Dean.

Sam nodded. “Yeah. Cas. Well, Castiel. He's okay.”

“Unlike a lot of the others,” Dean muttered to no one.

“And you're supposed to really be Spencer?” JJ asked, frowning. She was clearly still unconvinced.

“Yeah,” Spencer said, dejected. “There was a case. There was a witch. She got killed. We don't know what's going to happen now.”

“We're going to figure something out,” Sam tried to assure him. Spencer nodded, but he still looked glum.

“You're the only one who calls me Spence, JJ,” Spencer told her. “You had to explain the rules of football to me when we went to that Redskins game, and I still don't understand it all that well much less why it's a popular sport. And after Maeve...” he clutched at Dean's thumb again and shuddered. “You helped put me back together. JJ, it's _me_. Just, you know, a bit shorter.”

“A _lot_ shorter,” Hotch commented, coming in. “Dinner's ready, if you don't mind relocating this conversation.”

Everyone in the living room took the obvious hint and got to their feet. Spencer trotted ahead and Hotch helped him get situated on a makeshift booster seat made from a telephone directory and a cushion, since Jack's old booster seat had long since been out of use and subsequently sold during a yard sale. Sam and Dean squished together at one corner while the FBI team sorted themselves out into the remaining seats. Hotch had whipped up a simple spaghetti for dinner. He apologized to Rossi for poorly-made Italian food, but Rossi just waved him aside and told him not to worry about it this time.

The meal was served in a strange mix of comfortable companionship and tense uncertainty. Rossi was still silent, JJ largely unconvinced and very upset at the Winchester's uncontested presence. Penelope was carrying on a conversation with Derek. Hotch presided in stoic silence that Sam and Dean wondered was his default setting. Spencer gave up on the long noodles after a few messy attempts. Rossi cut up the noodles into smaller pieces without being asked.

“So,” Rossi said after everyone had eaten most of what they had served themselves, “you hunt the supernatural.”

“That's correct,” Sam said. Dean nodded.

“How did that start?”

“Dad,” Sam said.

“Demon killed our mom,” Dean added.

Rossi looked faintly sympathetic. “I'm sorry to hear that,” he told them. “How did he know it was a demon?”

“You mean other than the fact that he pinned mom to Sam's nursery ceiling before he set her on fire?” Dean asked with studied care.

“There were others,” Sam told Rossi, shooting Dean a quelling look. “All killed in their child's nursery on the kid's sixth month birthday, pinned to the ceiling, burned alive, with traces of sulfur at the scene.”

“Sulfur?” JJ asked.

“Demons leave it behind. Don't know why, but they can't help it,” Dean told her. “You starting to believe us yet, sweetheart?”

“Not a chance,” JJ told him flatly.

Hotch sighed. “JJ, I was _there_ when Spencer got...” he gestured vaguely, “shrunk. So were Garcia and Morgan.”

“We didn't tell you sooner,” Spencer admitted, shamefaced, “because we hoped that there'd be a simple solution, so that I could be normal again before anyone knew what had happened to me. I'm sorry.”

JJ melted. Hotch's confirmation – which he _finally_ offered – seemed to have shredded the worst of JJ's doubts. She reached over the table and took Spencer's hand in hers, squeezing it gently. “Don't be sorry,” she told him. “What can we do to help?”

Sam cleared his throat, darting a glance over at Rossi to see if the older man was going to shut him down again. Rossi raised an eyebrow and tilted his head slightly. Sam took that as a go-ahead. “We think we're pretty sure who cast the spell on Spencer,” he told Rossi and JJ. “Unfortunately she was murdered before we could talk to her. Dean found the hex bag that carried the curse, so we know it was done by another witch.”

“Hex bag?” JJ asked. Spencer briefly outlined what a hex bag was, both in contents and in usage. JJ nodded slowly.

“Anyways, Dean and Hotch,” he nodded at his brother and the BAU team leader respectively, “found Elaine Burke's body earlier today. Penelope got us a list of possible coven members and Derek, Dean, and I have started interviews. So far, no substantial leads on who killed Elaine or on who to reverse the spell on Spencer. I'll see what I can find on the internet, but I wouldn't get your hopes up.”

Spencer took the news with solemn resignation. “I don't suppose the internet has a lot of reliable information on witches and spells, does it?” he asked.

Sam scratched in itch just behind his ear. “It's touch and go,” he admitted. “Some sites are pretty reliable for their information, but I haven't found anywhere that has actual _spells_. Covens tend to keep those only in grimoires – spellbooks. Better for the demon in charge to keep a leash on its following, I guess.”

“Demons?” JJ groaned. “That does _not_ sound good.”

“Generally,” Dean said, “no. Which is why either Sam or I should be there for any and all interviews with the coven. We don't know which one is possessed, and none of you guys are equipped to handle a demon.”

“And how _do_ you handle a demon?” Rossi asked.

Sam and Dean shared a brief glance. Dean answered for them. “Generally, you exorcise them. Or, if you're really lucky and are us, you can kill them outright. But unless you have a – what did Henry call it?”

“Uh,” Sam thought about it for a moment. “An 'ancient demon-killing knife of the Kurds.'”

“We just call it Ruby's knife,” Dean said openly, enjoying poking at the FBI agents.

“Why Ruby's knife?” Spencer asked.

“Because a demon named Ruby is who we got it from,” Dean told him. “Anyway, you need either that, an Angel's blade, or the Colt. None of which you guys have and none of which we can give you, sorry. Ergo, no talking to witches without a Winchester present. We don't need one of you guys getting yourselves killed, or worse, possessed.”

“What's the exorcism?” Derek asked. “Can anyone do it?”

“Sure,” Sam told him. “We can write it down for you. It's just, well, in Latin, and pretty dodgy to try using it without having it memorized really well first.” He shot Dean a faintly guilty, and more than a little amused, glance. Dean scowled darkly at him.

“Don't even bring it up,” he warned his brother.

“What?” Penelope asked, curious.

“We were on an airplane for our first exorcism,” Sam told her gleefully. “Dean hates flying.”

“I told you to shut up,” Dean complained.

“It was rocky – took the both of us reciting – but we managed to get rid of the demon before it brought down that plane too,” Sam finished with aplomb. “So, yeah, if you want we can give you a copy, but don't get too confident and try to take on a demon by yourself.”

“We won't,” Hotch promised for his team. Spencer wriggled down from his seat, catching everyone's attention. He paused when he noticed that all eyes were on him.

“Bathroom,” he said self-consciously before darting away.

When he was out of sight – and after everyone heard what was presumably the bathroom door close – JJ sighed, frowning. “He's so little,” she said.

“Hard to think he grows up so tall,” Derek added. “Still loves his socks, though.”

That made JJ smile – every other FBI agent at the table as well.

Rossi turned to Sam and Dean. “So how long have you two been... 'hunting?'” he asked.

Dean shrugged. “All our lives,” he said easily.

“I blame Dad,” Sam said.

“And Azazel,” added Dean. Sam nodded.

“We've tried to get out,” Sam felt compelled to confess. “It never ends well.”

Dean shook his head. “Man, I need a beer if we're getting into that,” he muttered, slouching. “Can we not get into that? I really don't want to get into that.”

“That's alright,” Hotch said calmly. “Is everyone on the same page? Does anyone have questions?”

“How do you intend on dealing with this coven?” asked Rossi.

Dean shrugged. “Best way is to take out the demon that's bankrolling them.”

“If it's a new enough coven,” Sam continued, “they haven't established themselves enough to generate enough magical energy on their own. So, if we can identify and neutralize the demon, we can cripple the rest of the coven.”

“Sounds simple enough,” JJ commented.

“Not really,” Sam told her. “Demons are really good at blending in. It's why they can cause so much trouble. Holy water burns them something terrible, and their eyes go black when you say _Christo_. And they leave traces of sulfer behind wherever they go. But until they're about to kill you they seem to be just another regular human. You gotta be really careful.”

“Hence having one of us around to watch your backs,” Dean added.

Spencer trotted back into the room and clambered up into his chair. He declined help, so everyone just sat back and tried not to imagine him falling and cracking his skull open on some hard surface. “What did I miss?” he asked.

“Nothing you didn't already know,” Dean said. “Just the basic steer-clear-of-demons 101.”

Spencer nodded. “So, nothing new.”

“Nope.”

“Oh. Okay.” He glanced around the table at his friends and coworkers. “This is really weird,” he confessed in a huff. “You're all so _big_.”

“Nah,” Derek teased. “You're just tiny.”

“So,” JJ said slowly. “Monsters are real.”

“Yup,” said Dean.

“Vampires?”

“Nothing like _Twilight._ Not like Buffy, either. Mean bloodsuckers. Gotta cut their heads off. Dosing them with dead man's blood slows them down, though. It's like a poison to them.”

“Not a stake to the heart?” JJ asked.

Sam shook his head. “Not good enough. That just slows them down. Once they can get rid of the stake, they're back on their feet and looking to kill.”

“What about werewolves?” asked Penelope.

Sam and Dean hesitated. “Real. Silver bullets, or knives work against them. If you ever get a case where the hearts look like they've been ripped out, give us a call,” said Sam.

“Werewolves?” she asked, ashen-faced.

“Feral ones,” Dean confirmed. “Not all of them are like that, though. A friend of ours got bit a while back. He found a decent enough pack. They don't touch humans. The odd cow, chicken... deer. Not humans.”

“What about fairies?”

“Real enough to do damage.”

“Leprechauns?”

“Meaner than you'd think.”

“Elves?”

“Evil.”

“Ghosts?”

“Been a while since we tackled a simple ghost case. Yeah, they're real too.”

“Are unicorns real?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Sam and Dean looked at each other. Dean repeated, “ _No_. Unicorns are not real.”

“You don't know that for sure,” Sam said resentfully.

Dean pointed a finger at Sam's nose. “No. _No._ No unicorns, Sam. No means no.”

Sam threw up his hands in defeat. “Whatever.”

“What about Genies?” The questions continued after a moment.

“They'll grant you your fondest dream,” Dean said sagely, “as they eat you alive.”

“You're ruining all of my childhood dreams,” Penelope accused them.

Derek raised an eyebrow at her. “Childhood?”

“Sorry?” Sam said helplessly. He looked at Dean, who just shrugged. “It's not really our fault.”

Penelope sighed heavily. “No, I guess not. Still not happy about it.”

Sam frowned at her. “I thought Spencer had you doing some research for him. Didn't you run across anything about this then?”

“I was tracking down _you,_ ” Penelope told him. “Which is not an easy thing to do since you've both died _how many times_?”

“Uh,” Sam paused.

“Don't know,” Dean admitted. “Death's pretty annoyed with us, though.”

“Death?” JJ squeeked.

“Yeah. Tall skinny guy. Loves take out. Kinda in charge of the whole end-of-mortality schtick,” Dean said. “He's really looking forward to the day when either Sam or I kick it and stay down.”

“Take out?” Spencer asked.

Dean nodded. “First time I talked to him he sat me down and tried to get me to eat a deep dish pizza with him. It was, admittedly, not what I was expecting when I started tracking him down. The pizza was pretty good, too.”

Sam's cellphone rang. He got to his feet and checked the number, moving into the living room before answering. “Hello? Yes, this is Special Agent Moloney. Of course I know them, I sent them down your way. Just give them anything they need. Right. You too.” He hung up and turned back to the table.

A panel of FBI agents stared at him.

Sam hesitated. He looked at Dean who took pity on him.

“Who was that for?” Dean asked.

“Bill and Ralf, apparently,” Sam said. “Sounds like they got themselves a Black Widow.”

Dean shook his head. “Not fun. They know how to kill it?”

“Presumably. If they don't, they'll probably be giving us a call sometime soon.”

“They're pretending to be FBI agents?” Hotch asked coolly.

“What?” Dean asked insolently. “It's not like we get _actual_ help when we work. This here, us talking to you guys? This is something of a first, for at least a long time. Law enforcement doesn't really hold well with those of us who fight the supernatural. And yeah, sometimes we gotta lie through our teeth to get people to talk to us so we can help them. What of it?”

“It's kinda illegal,” Penelope pointed out.

“So is a lot of what we have to do,” Sam said. “It's illegal to dig up a grave and then salt and burn the bones, but when that's the only way to get rid of a ghost that's been killing people, then that's what we're going to do. And we're not going to apologize for it.”

It was obvious that the FBI (sans Spencer, since he already knew about the illegality of hunting) were not happy with the blatant disregard for laws. It was also obvious that neither Sam nor Dean really cared. Spencer sighed, wilting a little. Rossi suggested that they take the discussion into the living room where they'd be more comfortable. Everyone agreed. After a few minutes everyone was settled in Hotch's living room, on the sofa, on the recliner and armchair, and on a few chairs brought from the dining room so no one had to sit on the floor. Spencer curled up with JJ and Penelope while Sam and Dean exiled themselves to the dining room chairs.

“So, Spencer,” Dean started, “we gotta talk about what happened to you.”

Spencer sat up a little. JJ tucked him closer and cuddled him protectively to her side. “What do you need to know?” he asked.

“Start to finish. What happened? You were working on a case,” Dean started for Spencer, prompting him.

So Spencer told them about the case. How the city police department had asked the BAU to consult on some really strange murders. Spencer had actually been really interested in the case because of his research into Sam and Dean and the supernatural.

“Shouldn't have gotten cocky,” he admitted ruefully.

“Should've called us about it,” Dean corrected.

“Too late for that now,” Hotch interrupted. He directed Spencer to continue. So, Spencer continued, detailing what had happened, what they had done and what they were looking into while they were doing it.

When he got to the day that he had been cursed Sam had him slow down and tell them _everything_. Sam, or Dean, would then make him go back and elaborate on something he saw, something he touched. It was a good thing for Spencer that he had an eidetic memory and could accurately answer their questions. Sam took notes on a few pieces of paper Hotch had found for him.

“So you hadn't actually even talked to Elaine,” Sam asked, for clarity's sake.

“We didn't make the connection with her until after you arrived,” Spencer confirmed. “You told us to back down until you arrived. We did.”

Sam nodded absently. “Good. That's good.”

Dean continued the questioning. Did Spencer eat or drink anything out of the ordinary that day? Anything that was handled by other people – that no one else ate or drank? Did he come across and touch anything strange? Spencer answered each question. No, he did not eat or drink anything strange. Yes, he had lunch delivered – Greek, everyone had something from the order – and he stopped by a coffeeshop for coffee. Nothing strange – wait.

“There was an old silver locket,” Spencer recalled sleepily. “It was heavy and didn't open. I found it at the last crime scene, after all the techs had gone through. I thought it was strange, out of place even, so I handed it off to CSU.”

Sam and Dean shared a glance. Hotch sat up. “What is it?” he asked them.

“Might be nothing,” Sam hedged.

“But we'll need to take a look at that locket,” Dean finished.

“You think that it might have been cursed?” Spencer asked.

“It's a possibility,” Sam told him. “We can't be sure right now, but it looks to be our best bet so far. If we can figure out how the curse was delivered, we might have a better chance at figuring out what spell was used, providing we can get our hands on a copy of a de-aging spell.”

“The _right_  de-aging spell,” Dean corrected.

Sam nodded. “Right.”

“Why would that matter?” Derek asked.

“Think of it kinda like, well, like the first curse was a key that turned a lock. You need the same key to unlock the lock, or else it just jams up and doesn't move,” Sam explained briefly. “Some spells – and we don't know if this one will be one of them – are finicky. Some need the same caster to undo them, some need a specific reversal spell or incantation. Some spells can only be performed at certain times by people who meet the requirements. Magic's complicated that way.”

“Just one more reason why I hate witches,” Dean added. “Nothing's ever simple with them. Give me a demon or a vampire any day, but _witches_.” He shook his head.

Sam clearly agreed, but he did not say anything. He instead glanced over his notes. “So,” he said, “what happened after the locket?”

Spencer thought about it. “Well, I gave it to CSU for processing, like I said. Then we all went back to the station to go over what we had collected so far. There was Hotch, and Morgan, and Garcia, and I. Then, I don't really know,” he hesitated. JJ combed her fingers through his hair and he relaxed a little more into her side. “I felt kinda sick,” he admitted. “Like, nauseous and feverish, and like everything was three sizes too small for me. Then I passed out.”

“He toppled like a tree,” Penelope added. She looked, and sounded, ill at the memory. “We didn't know what was going on.”

Hotch took up the narration. “After he passed out, Derek got to him first. It was him who noticed the difference before we did. After that he just... shrunk. Steadily. Garcia had started calling 911, but I had her stop before she could put the call through – I didn't think that paramedics could help the situation.”

“Good call,” Dean said.

“He woke up not long after getting to the size he is now,” Hotch continued, nodding toward Spencer. “He didn't seem as shocked as he probably should have been, given what had just transpired.”

“He asked for a mirror,” Penelope commented, shooting Spencer a teasing half grin.

“Needed visual confirmation,” Spencer muttered. “Then we called you. Nothing else.”

“Okay,” Sam said, nodding, “good. Good. This is... wow. A _lot_ more than we usually get on a case. If we can get a look at that locket, maybe take a look around Elaine Burke's place to see if we can find her grimoire, we might be able to get this reversed. _Might,_ ” he stressed. “Magic's kinda dodgy.”

“We'll make calls,” Dean promised again. “Talk to people in the know, see what they can tell us. In the meantime, what are we going to do with Spencer here during the days? We can't just leave him alone, it's not safe.”

The BAU team agreed. They tossed around a few ideas – all of which Spencer vetoed since he didn’t want to deal with daycare or a babysitter or anything like that – before it was decided that he would come to work with Penelope and stay in her office with her. JJ promised to bring a few colouring books and some crayons to be spread out in a corner of the room to lend credibility to the fact that Spencer was _actually_ four. They would pass Spencer off as a material witness to a case that was being worked on, a witness that they needed in protective custody for his own safety but couldn't hand over to the Child Protective Services yet. If they kept it quiet, no one should bother them about it. The BAU was given a bit more latitude than other branches of the FBI owing to the kind of cases they took on.

While that was being decided, Spencer was steadily sinking further and further into JJ's lap, until the little FBI prodigy was fully asleep on top of his best friend. Penelope cooed softly and snapped a few photos on her phone. Hotch suggested that Spencer be moved to Jack's room, since Jack was spending the night at JJ's with Henri. JJ scooped Spencer up, cradling him gently as she stood up and followed her boss further into his home.

When Hotch and JJ were upstairs Dean cleared his throat. “So,” he said casually, “what's Spencer look like normally?”

“Taller,” Rossi said shortly, smiling. Penelope grinned and pulled up a picture on her phone and passed it over so that Dean and Sam could see.

Two pairs of eyebrows flew up. “Much taller,” Sam commented.

“Don't be so surprised, Sammy,” Dean teased. “You were just as little once upon a time. Until you hit puberty. Then I don't know what happened. Maybe you drank Miracle-Gro, or something like that when I wasn’t looking. All I know is that you just seemed to keep outgrowing all the clothes Dad and I got for you overnight.”

Sam laughed a little. It had been something of a sore topic when he shot up past Dean during high school. Dean consoled himself with being the better shot, better field medic, better knifesman... et cetera. Then again, at that time, Sam had been carefully planning his getaway to Stanford, so he hadn't _really_ cared that Dean was a better hunter than he was. He spent more time butting heads with their father over school versus hunting than almost anything else during those years. Now, he spent little time recalling those years. They had not been very happy, fighting with John, Dean trying to keep the peace. Sam was not particularly proud of that part of his life. Then again, there were a lot of things in his life that Sam was not proud of.

“Do you really think that you can reverse this?” Rossi asked seriously.

“To tell the truth?” Dean said. “Not really.”

Sam agreed. “We've never even heard of something like this. We'll do what we can from here, but honestly,” he shook his head. “I wouldn't get your hopes too high.”

Rossi accepted their words with solemnity. Penelope and Derek looked worried. Dean changed the subject.

“So,” he said, turning to Rossi, “you're sure taking all this pretty well.”

Rossi shrugged fluidly. “When you've worked the BAU as long as I have,” he said, “you see things. Some of them can't _really_ be explained. But if what you're saying is true and all those mythological monsters are actually out there... that might explain a lot.” He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, and stared at the floor in front of him for a long moment.

“Is that why you left?” Penelope asked. The question seemed to take her surprise and she hastened to apologize. Rossi cut her off.

“One reason, yes,” he said simply. She stared at him in shock, her mouth open. Sam and Dean listened with interest. Rossi glanced about the room. “There are cases where _something_ just doesn't make any sense. Why would they do that? _How_ did that happen? And the answers never seemed to come. Eventually, you have to move on to the next case, but those cases,” he shook his head, “they never really leave you alone.”

Both Sam and Dean nodded. They knew that feeling well.

Rossi continued, “Eventually, it either gets forgotten, or it all just piles up inside your head. After that, it's all on how you choose to deal with it. Me, I left and started writing, but I've seen others driven to drink... to suicide.”

That got dark fast. Neither Sam nor Dean dared look at the other. They had both been on that brink many, many times. They lived on that precipice. They had a neat little cottage teetering uncertainly on that cliff, they were there so often. It was depressing.

“Yeah,” Dean said slowly, his voice thick. “Knowing doesn't help, sometimes,” he confessed. “Sometimes, it just make you feel more guilty, knowing exactly what happened to them. Like, you know what got to them, so you should have been able to save them. But you can't save everyone. Not all the time.”

“It's a terrible truth,” Rossi agreed gravely.

“Yeah, well,” Dean said, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest defiantly, “I don't like it.”

Rossi smiled faintly, almost laughing. “I don't think anyone does. No one sane, at least.”

“Sane,” Sam snorted softly.

“So,” Penelope said slowly, drawing the word out. “What sort of things do you guys do, when you're working?”

“Well, that depends,” said Sam. “What do you mean?”

“Well, how do you find a case? Does someone call you? Do you have some sort of hunter-information-net?”

“Uh, well, mostly we keep an eye on local newspapers on the internet,” Sam told her. “Sometimes someone will call us with a case, if they have our number. Mostly it's the internet. Hunters aren't really... very well organized, as a whole,” he admitted.

“Probably comes from the fact that the only way someone'd get themselves into the life is to lose everything to some monster. It’s something of a baptism by fire, if you know what I mean,” Dean commented dryly. “Most don't live very long. Sammy and me? We're the exception. By hunter's standards we're ancient.”

Sam agreed silently.

“What's the life expectancy?” Derek asked. JJ and Hotch returned and sat down. JJ asked Penelope quietly what she had missed and Penelope started catching her up.

Dean shrugged. “A couple months, maybe. Couple years, if they're not too suicidal and know when to make tracks and how to handle the necessary weapons without killing themselves. Most don't make it past that. Five years, and you can call yourself a veteran. Ten, and most consider you old.”

“And a lifetime?” Derek prompted.

“Legend,” Sam said after a moment, not meeting anyone's gaze. Dean looked away also.

“It's not something that comes up much,” Dean said abruptly. “Sam and I, we mostly work on our own. We don't see too many other hunters these days.”

“Why is that?”

Dean shot a brief scowl at Derek for his prodding questions. “It's a big country,” he said. “Not many of us out there. We're spread a bit thin. It's not a surprise when you don't meet up with anyone else for long stretches of time.”

“Tell us about one of your cases,” JJ requested.

Sam and Dean looked at each other.

“Ghost?” Sam suggested.

“Which one?” Dean asked, rolling his eyes. Sam agreed and shrugged.

“How about the leprechauns.”

Dean grimaced. “Dude, they _kidnapped_ me!” he protested.

“So? They gave you back,” Sam grinned and turned to the FBI team. “Leprechauns. So, we rolled into this town because of some really weird 'alien abductions' that were going on and we thought we’d check it out...”

“Dude,” Dean protested weakly. “Not cool.”

Sam went on, ignoring his complaining brother.

The retelling of old hunts went on for hours. Hotch kept brewing coffee. Sam eventually put together a list of basic spirit and demon repellents that he passed around – salt, holy water, iron, a sketch of a devil's trap, and a quick copy of a basic exorcism, along with instructions of how to use them. For a brief while Sam and Dean devolved into a 'Most Embarrassing Hunting Moments' competition that was shut down by mutual agreement before it got too ridiculous. After all, they were surrounded by feds that they hardly knew.

At some point Penelope had tucked her feet under her and curled up against the arm of the sofa, drifting off to sleep. JJ wasn't too far behind, in a mirrored position. Hotch and Rossi both looked more awake then they had any rights to be. Derek was curled around an obscenely large mug of coffee, determined to stay awake.

Notes were taken.

Dean had grinned when paper and pens had been passed around for the FBI to use. Sam had looked almost flattered. They couldn't help themselves at that point, they made certain to stress the signs that were indications of certain supernatural creatures, how to be sure, and finally, now to neutralize.

“You mean _kill_ ,” JJ had asked flatly at that point.

“Ain't no prisons for them, and it’s not like they’re going to just _stop_ ,” Dean reasoned.

“And, even if a prison could hold them, they'd probably turn it into a bloodbath at some point,” Sam pointed out. “You best hope would be for solitary confinement, with each cell locked, and warded – Like Crowley's dungeon.” He said the last bit to Dean. Dean nodded.

“Be impossible to keep up, long term, though,” he added.

“Who's Crowley?” asked Derek.

“A demon,” Dean told him. “He's also a grade-A douche, and we're not talking about him right now.”

“Why not?” Derek prodded.

“Because it's a long, and _very_ involved story, and I really don't want to think about him right now. That gonna be a problem?” Dean stared at Derek.

“Guys,” Sam sighed, “knock it off.” He got up to get more coffee from the kitchen. JJ followed him.

“I'm not one hundred per cent convinced this is all real, just so you know,” she told him as she poured herself a fresh mug.

“That's fair,” said Sam. “I'm still not convinced that you guys aren't just going to turn around and arrest us once we've done what we can.”

JJ had to give him that. “Well, you two do have a _very_ colourful criminal record, if I recall correctly.”

“The worst of it was all done by someone else,” Sam told her.

“Which you can't prove.”

Sam inclined his head ruefully. “Which we can't prove.”

They both went back into the living room after that.

The unexpected Supernatural 101 class continued until Spencer got up. He stumbled downstairs, rumpled and grumpy, and froze at the sight of everyone in the living room.

“Did you all stay up all night?” he demanded. Almost everyone jumped, wired on too little sleep and too much coffee. “You did, didn't you?”

“Morning Reid,” Derek said rather than addressing the accusation.

Hotch levered himself to his feet. “Right,” he decided, “How about we break up for now? Everyone go home, shower, change, grab something to eat. We have to be at the office in,” he checked his watch and grimaced, “three hours.”

Everyone murmured agreement. JJ prodded Penelope awake. Spencer found an apple and, holding it in both of his little hands, started munching on that while he waited for everyone to sort themselves out. Derek found his shoes for him and Spencer put the apple down so he could get them on himself – he _didn't_ need _help_ , after all, not with his shoes.

“We're taking this case again,” Hotch declared before anyone left. “Spencer will, officially, be on sick leave. Sam, Dean, I want you in my office, nine sharp, understood?”

The Winchesters hesitated. “You sure that's a good idea?” Dean asked. “I mean, we might be, legally and whatnot, _dead_ , but that's not going to mean much if someone recognizes us, which is a real possibility.”

“If it happens, I'll take care of it,” Hotch assured them, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I can’t believe I’m going to be advocating this. You have false identities, do you not?”

“Uh, yeah?” Sam admitted hesitantly.

“Use those. If anyone gives you trouble, have them call me.” He found one of his cards and wrote directions on the back as well as his direct phone number. Dean accepted it.

“Hotch,” Derek started, “you sure that's a good idea?”

“No, but they need to examine evidence. This is the only way to make it happen,” Hotch admitted.

“We could, I don't know, log them as CIs,” Penelope suggested through a yawn.

“Do that,” Hotch said. “Write up a file for them. Get visitor's passes ready for them. Alright. I'll see you all at the office.”

They broke up then, each heading for their cars. Spencer went with Derek, since all of the clothes that he had in his size were still in Derek's guest bedroom. And the car seat – humiliation of humiliations – was in Derek's truck. Still, while he wasn't being allowed coffee, he did have an apple. It would have to do.


	6. Chapter Six

Spencer was in exile. Locked away like some fairytale maiden in a dark cavern. He was fading, wasting away. His mind was atrophying, he was sure he could feel it dying bit by bit. Being locked away in Sam and Dean's motel room hadn't been anywhere near this bad. This was Hell. A dark hell, lit by the glow of hateful computer screens that mocked him with their soulless knowledge. Spencer was going to die in here. It was a certainty.

“You're very melodramatic,” Penelope commented. She sounded impressed

Spencer moaned from where he was spread-eagled on the floor. A few colouring books had been opened and flipped through. Crayons were digging into his scapulae. Some were probably broken now, from him rolling on top of them. Spencer just couldn't bring himself to even care.

“You know, you could always come up here and learn how to use a computer, my tiny Luddite friend,” she coaxed.

“Don't wanna,” Spencer mumbled, feeling rebellious.

“Your choice. And here I was, researching spells. Thought you might want to help out with that.”

Penelope's casual teasing had Spencer bolting upright and dragging a spare chair over beside her. “Let me see,” he demanded. She grinned at him.

“The Winchesters should be here in a few minutes,” she told him, pulling up the web browser she had been using for her occult research.

“Has the evidence from the crime scene arrived?” Spencer asked.

“Ten minutes ago. It's waiting in the conference room.” She sighed. “You know, there really aren't that many de-aging spells out there. At least, not according to the internet. Lots of youth-and-beauty charms and rituals... oh. Yikes.” She peered at the screen, reading the details for one ritual before quickly clicking away. “That was gross. Kittens and duckling, kittens and ducklings. Oh, I seriously need a shot of something cute and adorable after reading that.”

Spencer watched his friend, amused. She shuddered dramatically before straightening her spine and forging ahead. Together they searched through website after website, discarding more than a few for being obviously too hokey. They hadn't found any spells for regressing somebody's age before Penelope got the call from Hotch that Sam and Dean were on their way up. Spencer was out of his chair and at the door, straining to turn the handle, before Penelope finished the call.

“Hey hey,” she protested, “wait for me there. We're not allowed to let you run around here by yourself right now.”

“I know that! Come on,” Spencer insisted. Penelope smiled at him. He was just so adorable when he was being all passionate and emphatic. She got to her feet and held out her hand. Spencer stared at it.

“Come on,” she said, shaking her hand a little, “you're a little kid right now. Little kids hold hands with adults. Hold my hand and I'll take you to see Sam and Dean so you can be there when they check out that locket.”

Spencer frowned at her. “You're taking advantage of this situation,” he accused her. He tucked his little hand into hers and she grinned at him, delighted and immensely amused.

“You bet your cute little toes I am,” she said impudently. They walked together from her office to the BAU bullpen. Hotch was in his office – the door was open, it was only open when he was working in there but was keeping himself open for his team to come to him if they needed to discuss something with him. It looked like Rossi was also in his office. JJ was talking with Derek, a file open between them on Derek's desk. JJ also had a handful of printouts as well that they were leafing through. Spencer tugged Penelope towards them, urging her to move faster.

“Slow down,” she complained mildly. “You're the only one who got a decent night's sleep. Take pity on me.” They caught Derek and JJ's attention, causing the two of them to look up. Penelope released Spencer's hand and Spencer scooted – with dignity, which just looked adorable on a four year old – towards them.

“What are you working on?” he asked. He couldn't see what was on the top of the desk from his vantage point, even on the tips of his toes. JJ, well versed in 'child,' lifted him up so that he could sit on a clear spot on the desk and join the conversation from a more equal height.

“Your case,” Derek told him.

“Well,” JJ clarified, looking around surreptitiously for anyone close enough to overhear, “the case that you had been working on when...” she trailed off and gestured at him.

“When I got regressed in age?” Spencer asked baldly. “You can say it Jayge. It's a little hard to miss.”

“I'm sorry, it's just... strange.” She looked embarrassed at the confession. “You talk like the Spencer I know, but you're just so _little_. You're smaller than Henri right now.”

“Oh, great,” Spencer groused. “I'm smaller than my godson. That is so not cool.”

“But so _cute_ ,” Penelope added happily. “Our very own mini Dr Reid.”

Spencer stuck his tongue out at her. Derek huffed out a laugh and tousled his hair. Spencer ducked his head, protested with a squawk, trying to straighten his hair with his fingers. Penelope may or may not have captured the moment on her phone.

Spencer perked up when he saw Sam and Dean being escorted into the BAU bullpen. He waved, catching Sam's attention. Dean was busy casing the room, trying to look casual. For trained profilers, it was hard to miss, and Derek, JJ, and Spencer shared a brief, amused glance before Spencer hopped off the desk. He stumbled to his knees, but picked himself up without much pain at all.

Some things about being a kid again weren't so bad.

“Hey,” Sam greeted as Spencer trotted over to them. He squatted down examined Spencer. “How are you holding up?”

“Pretending to be a kid's no fun,” he told him.

Sam grimaced. “Yeah. Sorry about that. How are things otherwise?”

“Fine?” Spencer shrugged. “Are you ready to check out the locket?”

“Is it here?” Dean asked.

“Arrived not too long ago from Evidence,” JJ said.

“Excellent,” Dean said. “Let's check it out. Sooner that's done, the sooner we can get outta here. Feds give me the heebie-jeebies.”

“Worried, Dean?” JJ asked sweetly.

“You bet I am,” Dean told her without any shame. “You would be too, in my place.”

“Good thing I'm not in your place,” she said. “Come on, I'll take you to Hotch.”

Spencer tugged Sam's trouser leg. Sam looked lost for a moment. “Pick me up,” Spencer directed. Sam did. “Now we can follow JJ.”

Sam looked bemused. Dean snorted and rolled his eye, taking the lead out of the bullpen and up the stairs to where the senior agents' offices were. Hotch, being the probably-omniscient fearless leader that he was, was already on his way out of his office. He glanced over at the group heading towards him and motioned for them to follow him into the conference room.

“This it?” Dean asked when the door closed behind them. He moved over to the table where two evidence boxes sat, filled with sealed plastic bags.

“Everything that CSU collected,” Hotch confirmed.

Dean nodded. “Awesome. Let's get to work.”

Sam set Spencer down on the table. Everyone reached into the boxes, pulling out bags and checking their contents. Spencer helped, and no one protested. He almost fell into one of the boxes, trying to reach in for a bag near the bottom. The box tipped over instead, sending Spencer sprawling and knocking various evidence bags off the table.

“You alright?” Derek asked, helping a red-faced Spencer back up.

“Fine,” Spencer said, brushing himself off. “Sorry about that.”

“Don't worry about... hey! Here it is.” Derek lifted a bag with a large silver locket inside. He opened the bag while everyone else returned the other bags to the boxes. The heavy necklace spilled into his hand and he took a moment to take in the weight of it before he passed it to Dean. Dean accepted it carefully. He and Sam bent their heads close to examine the locket.

“It's big enough,” Sam commented, “if the ingredients are small.”

“Can't get it open, though,” said Dean. He had a thumbnail in the crack between the two halves and was trying to pry them apart. “Anyone got a knife? Didn't dare bring mine here.”

“There's a letter opener in my desk,” Spencer offered. “It might work.”

Derek offered to fetch it. Spencer told him where it was. Soon the letter opener was in Dean's hand, its point wedged where his thumbnail had been. There was still no give.

“Try some salt,” Sam suggested.

The FBI agents were confused. “Salt?” asked Hotch.

“Salt wards, right?” Sam said, “Well, perhaps it'll weaken the spell holding the locket closed.”

“If it is a spell,” Dean said.

“Cross your fingers,” Sam told him.

Penelope fetched all the packets of salt from the break room cupboards. Sam carefully opened each one and spilled the salt in a deliberate circle on the table around the locket. It took an obscene amount of packets, but when the circle was closed there was a faint hiss from the locket and the two sides sprung apart, spilling its contents. Sam and Dean accepted latex gloves and put them on before carefully picking through the startling – to the FBI – items.

“Bone of an infant,” Sam noted. He took pictures of everything with his phone as Dean separated the tangled mess. “What is that? A foxglove? That's for youth, right? What else is there?”

“Dunno. Some other plants. An old coin – looks Celtic. And these.” Dean held up two small, carefully cut down photographs: one of Simon Burke, the other a candid of an older Spencer Reid. “Well, I think this confirms that it was Elaine that cast the curse. No one else would have done it.”

“The photographs do seem to confirm that,” Hotch agreed.

“Clever of her,” Sam commented thoughtfully, “using the locket as a hex bag. Not really subtle, but no one who didn't know what to look for would really pay it any attention.”

“Nice catch, remembering it,” Dean praised. Little Spencer glowed. It was an action that illuminated the change being wrought in Spencer, as before the transformation the praise would have been met with brief acknowledgement, perhaps with a touch of self-recrimination for getting into trouble in the first place.

“It's the eidetic memory,” Spencer boasted. “I remember everything I see.”

“I'll bet that's come in handy more than once,” Sam commented.

“So, what do all of these things mean?” Derek asked, gesturing toward the mess that had spilled from the locket. Sam and Dean looked up, then around at the FBI.

“Well,” Sam started, “these are some of your basic ingredients for a hex bag.” He indicated the bone and the coin. “I'm guessing that the plants are used for directing the curse. If we can find out what they are we might be able to figure out what they are used for. And the photographs, well.”

“Those are a little obvious,” Hotch agreed.

“What about this?” Spencer asked, leaning close and poking his finger into a smudge of grey dust.

“I don't know.” Sam also touched the grey dust. He rubbed it between his fingers. “It's not dirt,” he decided with a grimace. “It's ash.”

“Ash?” Dean asked. “Oh great. Ugh. That's just gross.”

“What?” JJ asked. Penelope seconded the question.

“Did Elaine Burke have her son cremated?” Dean asked.

A round of grimaces swelled through the room. Penelope tapped at her tablet. She confirmed that yes, Simon Burke had been cremated. Spencer shuddered and wiped his hand on a tissue. Sam did likewise, not particularly wanting to wipe human ash onto the leg of his suit trousers.

“So,” said Dean, “I think we can safely assume that Elaine was looking to replace her son... with Spencer, who looks eerily like him.”

“Not my fault,” Spencer muttered.

“No one said that it was,” JJ comforted.

“It's not your fault,” Dean agreed. “She was just a sick, sick woman.”

“Good news is, now that we know how to curse was delivered we have a better chance at figuring it out,” Sam said.

“Think Garth might have an idea?” Dean asked Sam. “We got his new number now.”

Sam shrugged. “If he doesn't, he might know someone who does.”

“Worth a call.”

“Who's Garth?” Spencer asked.

“A friend,” Dean said.

“Like Cas?”

“Not quite. Garth was a hunter,” Dean clarified.

“'Was?'”

“Uh, yeah,” Sam said. He shared a look with Dean. “He got bit by a werewolf a while back. Dropped off the radar. But he's managing it.”

“You mentioned him before,” Hotch commented. “You think that he might be able to help?”

Dean shrugged. “Maybe? I don't know what sort of resources he has now. He used to have almost every hunter's phone number, but since he retired... we can ask. He did offer. Though, I'm not too sure how serious that was.”

“Worth a try, at least,” Sam said.

They handed the locket and its contents off to the FBI on the assurance that they would get the plant matter analyzed.

“It might not be very important,” Sam said, “but then again, it might be.”

The Winchesters got to their feet, and straightened their jackets. “Well,” said Dean, “unless there's something else we can do from FBI HQ, Sammy and I should get going. We still have witches to interview, after all. Any of you Agents coming with?”

“Morgan, you go,” Hotch said. “And I'll go see if Rossi is free as well. That way you can cover more ground. Does that work for you?”

“Sounds alright by me,” said Dean. “But just so you know, I ain't riding in one of your cars.”


	7. Chapter Seven

Derek and Rossi kept everyone updated on how the interviews went, calling in after each one. Spencer appreciated their effort greatly. He had to stay with one of the team at all times, which was harder and more annoying than he had anticipated. He researched spells with Garcia for a couple hours, the JJ picked him up and they got lunch. Spencer really did enjoy that. He and JJ went to a little diner not far from where they worked. It was a semi-frequented lunch stop for them and the rest of the team owing to good food and reasonable prices.

“People are really quite intrusive,” Spencer commented. He tad tucked himself closer to JJ in an attempt to hide himself from reaching hands and cooing comments about how absolutely adorable he was.

“Tell me about it,” JJ agreed. “When I was pregnant with Henri people would just come up to me and pat my belly, without even asking! I felt like clocking them for it. Like being pregnant was permission enough.”

“Or being little,” Spencer agreed.

JJ smiled at him. “Don't worry Spence, I'll protect you,” she teased.

Spencer sighed. “I know. Thanks.”

Something in his tone caught JJ's attention. She looked down at her shrunken friend and took a moment to study him. “Is something wrong?” she asked gently.

Spencer shrugged and picked at his fries. “No,” he denied.

“Come on,” she cajoled. “You can tell me anything, you know that. What's the matter?”

She patiently waited for Spencer to speak. The little FBI agent did not say a word for a long while. He frowned and ate a few fries. Then he nursed his child-sized glass of apple juice. “It's really very frightening, JJ,” he admitted.

“What is? Being a kid again?”

Spencer nodded. “I'm used to being able to look after myself,” he said. “I'm an FBI agent, for crying out loud! Now I can hardly write neat. I have to use two hands to turn door handles. I can't even keep up when people walk! It's embarrassing.”

JJ grimaced. “Yeah, I can see that,” she agreed with sympathy.

“I feel useless,” Spencer moaned.

“You're not useless,” JJ told him.

Spencer huffed. “I'm four. There's really not that much I _can_ do.”

“Maybe. But you're not useless. You may be littler, but you're still Dr. Spencer Reid, the smartest man I know. Nothing can change that.”

“Except maybe a traumatic head injury.”

JJ threw up her hands in defeat and scoffed. “You're impossible.”

“No, merely improbable,” Spencer quoted. “Though if one more person coos over how _cute_ I am, I just might be forced to kick them. In the shins.”

“Were you like this the first time around?” JJ asked, amused.

Spencer shrugged his little shoulders. “I don't know. I spent a lot of time playing chess. And reading. I didn't spend a lot of time with children my age.” His phone chimed with a text alert. “It's Sam. They've talked to Samantha Ricci.”

“And?” JJ prompted.

“Sam says that something is off, but she's not a demon. They'll keep an eye on her. Garcia's looking into it.”

JJ nodded. “I don't like them,” she confessed.

“Sam and Dean?”

“Yeah. I don't trust them.”

Spencer regarded her seriously. “Is this about their criminal record?”

“Spencer, they went on a killing spree!”

“That wasn't them!” Spencer insisted. “Everything about it was _all wrong_!”

“Spencer,” JJ said firmly, frowning, “they have video of them doing it.”

“But it wasn't _them._ Yes. They looked the same, but the body language, the expression, even the acts themselves! It's all wrong.” Spencer waved a fry at her. “If you can't trust them, then trust me. I poured over their files. I researched every angle that I could think of concerning every incident involving them. They _save_ people, JJ. Witnesses are reluctant to talk to the police about them because even if what they do is illegal, they do it for all the right reasons.”

JJ held her tongue. She took a breath and sighed. “I trust you, Spence,” she said softly. “I don't trust them. Not yet. Maybe I will, but I'll need to make my own judgments concerning them.”

Spencer nodded. He did not look happy, but he could accept JJ's need for personal confirmation. It was one thing to hear it from someone else, even if that someone else was trusted implicitly. It was another thing entirely to find out for oneself. And the self-discovered truths carried far more weight than any second hand testimony. “Alright.”

They finished their lunches and picked up a box of pastries for whoever happened to be at the office on their way out.

 

*

 

Being with Hotch was more tolerable than being with Penelope or JJ. Hotch had a door he could close against prying eyes (like Penelope, certainly, but Penelope did everything on computer, not paper, which Spencer preferred), so Spencer was allowed to work his way through a stack of police reports that had been sent in asking for a profile that they could work from provided that he sat where Hotch's desk would obscure him from the immediate sight of anyone who entered the room. After all, Hotch could get into a lot of trouble letting a child play with case files.

Every once in a while Spencer's phone would chime with texts from Sam. Just brief updates, like Sam was using Spencer as a notepad. Spencer didn't mind. Between the calls to Hotch, which Hotch relayed to Spencer, and the texts from Sam Spencer felt that he had a decent idea how the investigation was going.

Samantha Ricci was nervous during her interview, more nervous than she should have been even being interviewed by the FBI. Sam was certain that something was going on there. Spencer wasn't sure what was pinging on Sam's radar, since Derek hadn't said anything that would support Sam's distrust.

Rossi reported that he and Dean had not been able to get a hold of Clair MacDonnell.

Lauraine Queens, according to Derek, was hiding something. Sam agreed. Penelope was asked to dig deeper into her life as well.

That left Victoria Dixon, the last woman in the book club, who was, apparently, clean. Oh, almost certainly a witch, but most likely not guilty of murder.

Oh, Spencer wished that some things were cut and dry, that all the bad guys would wear black hats and have long handlebar mustaches so that you could tell, right away, that they were the _bad guys_. Unfortunately, life was not so simple, nor was it so plain and obvious. Bad guys looked like everybody else. So did the good guys, though they rarely got the girl, and quite often got paid pennies, if anything at all, for helping people and were almost never awarded anything except more paperwork and a string of people that they had not been able to save.

Being a good guy could be depressing.

Spencer sighed and stared blankly at the file on the floor before him. He really should be paying attention to the information that was provided, but he was finding that his thoughts were flying in several directions... mostly towards where Derek, Rossi, Sam, and Dean were interviewing murderous witches. It was very distracting.

He leaned against Hotch's desk and closed his eyes. Maybe if he tried to meditate a little, just to clear his thoughts, he would be able to concentrate.

 

*

 

Sam climbed into Derek's work vehicle, a big, black SUV that just screamed 'government agent.' He did not want to say anything, but just the act of getting into the SUV made him unaccountably nervous. It was something that had been ingrained into him from childhood, he knew, and not something that should be allowed to hold him back. This was Derek, after all, and while Sam did not know him very well, Derek had shown himself to be cautiously supportive, like all of the other FBI agents – Spencer being the exception, along with the pleasantly surprising Penelope. And Derek did not seem the type of person to turn around and stab someone in the back. There was too much honour in him. Sam could respect that.

He and Derek made a little small talk on the road, about nothing important and after a while they both lapsed into silence. Sam stared out of the window. He was really tired. Staying up all of the night before had really taken it out of him. His college days were blatantly far behind him.

Derek made a quick detour to pick up some coffee (black, with a double shot of espresso for both of them) on their way to Samantha Ricci's home.

“You sure you're up for this?” Derek asked, watching Sam breath in the coffee scented steam before knocking the hot drink back.

“I'm fine,” Sam insisted mildly. “Just tired, but so are you. Are _you_ up for this?”

Derek laughed a little. “ _Touché._ But seriously, you alright after last night? We did keep you up all night.”

“It's not a problem,” Sam said, shrugging. “I'm just tired. It's not the worst thing in the world.”

“True,” Derek agreed.

By the time they pulled up to Samantha Ricci's home Sam felt more awake as the coffee and espresso worked their magic. They got out of the SUV and paused on the sidewalk. Sam straightened his suit jacket and rolled his shoulders. Together they approached the house and rang the doorbell.

A man answered. “Hello?”

Derek took the lead. “Hello. My name is Agent Morgan, from the FBI. This is Agent Jones. Is Samantha Ricci available? We'd like to ask her a few questions.”

“Is something the matter?” asked the man, stepping aside to allow them inside the house.

“No, nothing to be worried about,” Sam assured, “We just need to ask some routine questions.”

“Routine? For what?”

“John?” a pretty voice called from further inside the house. “Who is it?”

John excused himself and ducked away. Derek and Sam could hear him speak. “There are some FBI agents to talk to you, Sammy. They haven't said what about.”

It was a long, silent, moment before John returned, trailing behind a round-faced brunette. She held out her hand and was introduced by John: “My wife, Samantha.” Derek and Sam both shook her hand politely and followed her into the living room. She sat on the sofa beside her husband

“What can I do for you, Agents?” she asked, curious.

“It's about Elaine Burke,” Derek said. Samantha frowned briefly before smoothing her expression over. Neither Sam not Derek missed the momentary lapse in poise.

“What about her?”

“Did you know that she was murdered yesterday?”

Samantha shared a glance with John. “We had heard, yes,” she admitted.

“It's a close neighbourhood,” John explained. “And Sammy and Elaine were friends.”

“It was terrible,” Samantha admitted. “After all she'd been through. Do you know who did it?”

Derek shook his head. “Not yet, Ma'am. Do you know of anyone who maybe wanted to harm her? Was she in trouble with anyone that you know of?”

“Not at all,” she answered swiftly. “She was a wonderful person. Everyone loved her.”

Sam nodded, as if he agreed wholeheartedly. “We understand that she recently lost both her husband and her son,” he prompted.

“Yes. Devon and Simon. That was tragic,” Samantha agreed. “She fell apart.”

The rest of the interview followed approximately the same formula as the previous three from the day before. Derek and Sam got no new information from Samantha or John. Samantha, however, continued to act oddly. She hesitated at odd moments, looked uncomfortable and occasionally irritated or satisfied, and answered some questions too swiftly, too firmly.

She did, however, pass Sam's demon-test. The only reaction she had to Sam's _Christo_ -cough was to ask if he had a cold and would he like some tea? Sam, of course, declined.

They left the Ricci home, shaking hands with John and Samantha and leaving a card with Derek’s name and cellphone numbers behind. They climbed into the SUV and drove a few houses further down the street before pulling over again and pausing.

“What did you think?” Sam asked.

“She was definitely hiding something,” Derek commented.

“Yeah, I thought so too. Can you have Penelope take a closer look at her?”

Derek nodded, his phone already out and ringing through. While he talked to Penelope, and then to Hotch, Sam pulled out his own phone, checked his messages – he had one from Dean. After listening to the message he texted Spencer. He shared the bare details of what had happened during the interview and what Dean had to say. Then they were back on the road for the next name on their list.

 

*

 

Rossi whistled appreciatively when he and Dean came up to the Impala. He ran a hand over the curve of the hood and down the face of the passenger's side door. Dean unlocked the driver's side door and got in, leaning over to pull up the lock to let Rossi in. Rossi opened the door and slid in, running his palms over the leather seat. The doors were pulled closed and Dean turned the key.

“This is a beautiful car,” Rossi commented as the Impala rumbled to life. Dean looked pleased with the praise. He stroked a thumb over the steering wheel and smiled fondly.

“She is, isn't she,” he said.

“How long have you had her?”

They pulled out of the FBI parking lot. “Dad bought her, back before I was born,” Dean told him. “Been with us ever since. You into old cars?”

As they drove they chatted – mostly Dean, telling Rossi about the Impala and what she had been through, how much care and effort Dean had put into her over the years. Rossi listened and participated, offering comments and questions in turn. They stopped briefly to pick up some coffee, but after almost no time at all, it seemed, they were pulling up to the house of Clair MacDonnell. Putting the conversation on hold for the time being, Dean and Rossi climbed out of the vintage car and approached the house.

Rossi rang the doorbell. Dean covertly looked through the windows. They waited, but there was no answer. Rossi tried the doorbell once more.

“Maybe she's not home,” Dean said.

“It's possible,” Rossi agreed. “Let's check the back.”

Dean nodded. They split up, Dean taking one side of the house, Rossi the other, and headed for the backyard. There was nothing out of place in the backyard, and the back door, like the front, was locked tight. Neither could see anything through the windows either. After a few minutes they agreed to try the next name and come back to the MacDonnell house.

Dean left Sam a brief voicemail message to update him.

 

*

 

Lorraine Queens did not invite Derek and Sam inside her home. Instead they talked outside on the porch. She was close-lipped, brief of word, and impatient. The entire time her posture was defensive, closed off, her arms crossed over her chest and her entire body pulled inward. Neither Derek nor Sam could get her to relax even the slightest.

They were sent away within minutes of arriving, with no more answers and only more suspicions.

 

*

 

Victoria Dixon was at home when Dean and Rossi knocked on her door. Dean was visibly taken aback when she answered the door. Her very long hair was half twisted up. She wore a loose peasant blouse and a long skirt that covered her bare feet. Around her neck hung long necklaces with various pendants that Dean recognized as actual-occult. It did not look like Victoria was trying to hide the fact she was a witch at all.

“Victoria Dixon?” Rossi asked. He and Dean showed her their FBI credentials. She spared the IDs a brief glance.

“Yes. Please, come in,” she stood aside. They entered the house. As she escorted them to the living room she said, “This is about Elaine, isn't it? Have a seat.”

“Yes, it is,” Rossi confirmed. He shared a bewildered glance with Dean, who was just as surprised.

“You're looking into finding out who killed her,” Victoria said nodding.

“That's right,” said Dean. “What can you tell us?”

Victoria frowned a little. She looked down at her hands. “Elaine was grieving,” she said at last. “No. That's not strictly true. She wasn't allowing herself to grieve and she was getting into some really _dark_ stuff.”

“Dark? How so?” Rossi asked her, the very picture of interest.

“Magic,” Victoria said boldly. “Really dark magic. Oh, you don't have to believe me about the magic, but Elaine really couldn't accept the fact that her son, Simon, was dead. She kept looking for some way to bring him back. It was an obsession. I tried to talk her away from all that – it's just _not_ right, bringing people back from the dead – but she just wouldn't listen. Not to me, not to anyone.”

“So,” Dean started, frowning, “she was trying to find some way to bring her son back to life? As what, a zombie?”

Victoria shook her head. “No, no. Revivification spells like that are common, but Elaine was looking to _bring Simon back_ , alive, not just reanimate his body. She wanted her little boy back in a dangerous way.”

“Okay. How about recently? Did you notice any changes in her, or in anyone around her?”

Victoria thought about it. She nodded. “Yes. She was excited about something. I can only imagine what. She was _really_ excited. I hadn't seen her so animated since before she lost Devon, it was like she had won the lottery jackpot or something like that.”

Dean and Rossi nodded. They gave nothing away, but Rossi continued the questioning. “What about the people around her? Did anyone seem... upset, angry, or even just uncharacteristically cold toward her?”

“Well,” Victoria hesitated. “I don't really want to say anything. I mean, people can get upset over just about anything, and it doesn't always lead to _murder,_ you know.” She twisted her hands in her lap.

“We'll be really discrete,” Dean promised. Rossi shot him a look, which the hunter ignored.

Victoria hesitated a moment more. Then she nodded. “Alright. Well. She really hadn't been keeping any friends since Simon died. It was like she just lost any will to care at all. A few of ladies from around the neighbourhood would stop by, bring her meals, see how she was doing, but Elaine really didn't want anyone around. She got into a terrible screaming fight with Sammy and Judith one day. I don't know what it was about, but they've not had a good thing to say about her since.”

“Sammy and Judith?” Dean asked, pulling out a small notebook and a pen from his inside jacket pocket.

“Sammy Ricci and Judith Hamilton,” Victoria explained. “And I know that she was on the outs with her side of the family... but that's been going on for years. It's nothing new. Her parents weren't the best, if you know what I mean.” Rossi made a soft, sympathetic noise. Dean nodded.

“Do you know about anyone else?” Dean prompted. “Maybe someone who really didn't approve of her looking into... raising the dead.”

Victoria pulled a face. “You mean other than myself?” she asked.

Dean smiled. “Yeah, other than yourself.”

“Well, Clair MacDonall wasn't too happy with it. She was with me when I found the books in Elaine's house. I don't think anyone else knew about it,” Victoria confessed.

“You're being awfully open about all of this,” Dean commented. Victoria looked surprised.

“Why wouldn't I be?” she asked. “I have nothing to hide, and just the fact that someone I knew, one of my friends and neighbours, was murdered in her own home... I want to do _whatever_ I can to help catch the killer.”

Dean raised his eyebrows, cocked his head to one side, and nodded. “Alright then. Fair enough. Just one more question: Why are _you_ so scared?”

Victoria froze. “What do you mean?” she asked, her voice carefully neutral.

He nodded toward her pendants. “All of those. They're all for protection, right? One's usually enough, does the job without looking too obvious. Three seems to be a bit of overkill, don't you think?”

“You,” Victoria started, sounding genuinely surprised. “You recognize them?” she asked, touching her fingers to the silver pendants.

Dean shrugged. “My dad was big into the occult stuff,” he said vaguely. “I picked it up here and there. So? What are you afraid of?”

Victoria stared down at her hands in her lap. She took a deep, shuddering breath. “It's awfully coincidental, don't you think,” she started, “that Elaine was looking into really black magic, and then she's found dead in her home? Things didn't used to be like this, you know. We were just playing about. Well, _they_ were just playing about. I'd always had some little gift with magic. I could make charms that were _really_ lucky, not just ones that people pretended were lucky. So when we all got together and they asked for me to teach them some charms and spell, I thought 'hey, why not?'”

“But them something changed,” Rossi inferred.

She nodded. “About a year and a half ago... no, it was two years ago. The spells just started _working_. Like they never had before. And it was for everyone. Clair and her husband stopped having problems. Samantha and her husband got pregnant. Things like that, things that they had been playing at having magic fix for them.”

“So two years ago, the magic just seemed to happen,” Dean repeated.

“Exactly.”

“Was that a problem?” Rossi asked.

Victoria shook her head. “No. Not that. The problems started about a year later. It was nothing big, nothing I can point at and say 'that's what's wrong,' just, I don't know, a feeling. It was like something dark was growing in the backyard, but I couldn't find it.”

Dean frowned. “Your actual backyard?”

“No, no. Like,” Victoria waved a hand around in circles. “Like _around_ , following me everywhere, just out of sight, in the corner of my mind. Then... and then Devon died, and then Simon died.” She sucked in a shuddering breath. “It's exploded since then,” she confessed softly.

“How so?” asked Rossi.

“It's really something you need to feel before you can understand it,” Victoria admitted. She licked her lips. “It's like a tumor growing inside of you. One you know is there, one you can _feel,_ but can't rid yourself of.”

“You can't just, I don't know, leave town?” Dean asked her.

Victoria shook her head slowly. “I suppose you might be able to,” she said, “but whatever it is, it's in my home, the area I live and work, and it's affecting my friends. I don't know what I can do... but I can at least keep an eye on it.”

The interview concluded not long after that. Den and Rossi thanked Victoria for her candor and willingness to help them. She escorted them to the door and they left her with Rossi's card and the request to call them if anything came up.

 

*

 

Spencer woke up face-down on the carpet with Hotch's jacket covering him. He sat up, looking around and wondering what had happened. He looked up and saw Hotch watching him with a soft expression on his usually stoic and careworn face. Spencer rubbed at his eyes, frowning.

“Welcome back,” Hotch said softly. “Feeling a bit better?”

“Yeah?” Spencer said uncertainly. Had he fallen asleep? “Did I fall asleep?” he asked, mortified.

“You needed a nap,” Hotch informed him. “Don't feel bad about it. You are, after all, four at the moment. Children take naps. It seems you're not an exception.”

Spencer covered his face with his hands and groaned. “But I'm not a child,” he protested.

“You're in a child's body,” Hotch pointed out. “It seems that is distinction enough.” He took pity on Spencer and reclaimed his jacket, pulling it back on. Spencer ran his fingers through his hair, straightening the long strands, and then he tugged at his teeshirt to untwist it where it had climbed up.

“I don't like it,” he muttered.

“Well, there's nothing to be done right now. Garcia is still looking for spells – I can't believe I just said that – and Morgan and Rossi have been checking in. Your phone has been going off, so I would assume that you have some messages as well from Sam. You might want to check those.”

Spencer latched onto the proffered distraction and found his phone. He had just unlocked it was scanning the text messages when JJ poked her head into the office and told them that Dean and Rossi were back and that Derek and Sam were on their way. Hotch told her to have everyone in the conference room when they arrived to go over what they knew.

“What happened to the case I was working on?” Spencer wondered, looking around his little corner of the floor.

“I put it here on my desk not long after you fell asleep,” Hotch told him, tapping the file. Spencer got to his feet and peeked over the top of the desk. Hotch shifted the file closer to Spencer's little hands and Spencer carefully slid it off the desktop.

Thirty five minutes later Derek arrived with Sam following. Sam slipped into Penelope's office to go through the websites she had found, after he had checked in with Spencer to see how he was doing.

Two hours after that Hotch got a phone call that sent them all scrambling for the hospital.


	8. Chapter Eight

Rossi was, for the most part, alright. He had a cut on his right temple and the same shoulder was bruised. He was still shaking glass out of his hair when Hotch arrived with JJ, Penelope, Spencer, and Sam not long behind.

“What happened?” Hotch demanded as they approached Rossi on the bed in the Emergency Room that he was sitting on.

“Where's Dean?” Sam said not a half second after.

“Car accident,” Rossi told them. “The brakes failed.”

“That's impossible,” Sam said, rejecting the explanation. “Dean babies that car. No way he would miss something going on with the _brakes_. Where is he?”

Rossi gestured to the partitioned off bed next to his. Sam threw back the curtain. His face tightened. He approached the bed carefully, taking in the distressing sight of his brother, bandages taped to his head, monitors and IV lines attached to his body, as he lay seemingly asleep on the bed. Sam stared numbly at the sight. He hated hospitals. He hated seeing Dean in hospitals. He hated it, and every time it was a sucker punch realization to the gut.

“When he realized that the breaks were failing he turned the car to avoid oncoming traffic in an intersection,” Rossi explained. “He hit a streetlight, driver's side. We weren't going too fast. The doctors say it's mostly just a concussion, but they can't be certain until he wakes up. There's also a broken arm and a few bruised ribs.”

Sam checked the monitors. He stared at Dean, reaching out and checking the damage for himself. “Dean's gonna be mad,” he commented. “The car's busted up _and_ he's got a broken arm. And there are witches. Wonderful.” He ran his hands through his hair and groaned.

A nurse came by and gave Sam forms to fill out. While he did that the FBI talked with Rossi. They were a pervasive murmur in the background. Sam filled out the forms, giving Dean's false name and insurance information, and gave the forms back to the nurse. He found a chair and pulled it up next to Dean's bed. It was plastic, hard, and, like of its ilk, moulded for maximum discomfort if sat upon for extended periods of time.

Another reason to hate hospitals.

A doctor came over, clipboard in hand and inquired as to Sam's relation to Dean. Sam told him. The doctor nodded and introduced himself. “I'm Doctor Ostler. Your brother is doing pretty well, considering. We're a bit concerned about the concussion. We've got a CT scan scheduled to see if there is any intracranial bleeding. As you can see he sustained a fractured radius and ulna. He's also badly bruised several ribs. None of them are broken, though.”

Sam nodded. Rossi had just told him all of that. “Do you know how long it'll be before he wakes up?” he asked.

Doctor Ostler shook his head regretfully. “No. Head injuries are touchy things. We have to wait for him to wake on his own.”

“Right.” Sam knew that. He ran his hands through his hair again and noticed the FBI casually eavesdropping from Rossi's bed. He ignored them for the moment. “And when he wakes up? What then?”

“Well, provided that his head checks out,” Doctor Ostler shrugged a little. “You should be able to take him home.

Sam nodded. He knew the drill. Doctor Ostler told him a bit about the medications that they had put Dean on while he checked Dean over. Sam listened, recognizing some of them from past hospital stays and the rare occasions when they had to rob a pharmacy for something stronger than what they normally carried around in the first aid kits. Eventually the doctor moved on to checking over Rossi, who got cleared to leave.

“Do you want to stay here?” Hotch asked Sam.

“Yeah, I should,” Sam told him. “Keep me updated?”

Hotch nodded. Rossi levered himself off the bed, looking stiff and in pain. Penelope and JJ moved to gently support him should he need and-or allow it. He smiled fondly at the two women and slung his good left arm around Penelope's shoulder. JJ grasped his right elbow and supported him that way.

“You sure you're going to be okay?” Derek asked Sam before he trailed after his team.

Sam nodded. “Yeah. You go. Just... call me if anything happens, alright?”

Derek agreed. “And you call us when your brother wakes up.”

“Oh! And if you could find out what they did with the car? Dean's going to want to fix her up. And we have to figure out what made the brakes fail. The timing for that is... just too convenient.”

“We can do that,” Derek agreed. He lingered for a moment longer before saying goodbye and leaving the ER.

Sam sighed. He curled himself into the uncomfortable plastic torture-chair and hunkered down for a long wait.

 

*

 

Penelope tracked down where the Impala had been hauled off to while on the road back to Quantico. She arranged for it to be brought to the FBI so that their techs – as well as the BAU themselves – could crawl through it to see if they could find out what had happened to cause the accident.

They got a call from Sam four and a half hours after they left the hospital. Dean was awake, mostly lucid, but he didn't recall very well what had happened that landed him in the hospital.

Two hours after that, after Dean had talked Sam into checking him out against medical advice, and they were back at the BAU office ensconced in the conference room with everyone else who was working the case, sans Penelope who was back in her office, Dean got a phone call.

“Yeah?” he said, answering the ringing phone. Everyone's ears perked.

 _“Dean?_ ” asked the young, male voice on the other end.

“Garth?” Dean asked, catching Sam's attention and drawing it sharply away from the laptop he was working on. Dean put the phone on speaker.

_“Yeah man! How're you doing?”_

“Not too bad, considering,” Dean said. “How's Bess?”

 _“She's wonderful,”_ Garth enthused. _“We just found out we're pregnant!”_

“Congrats,” Sam told him honestly. “Do you know if it's going to be a werewolf as well?”

_“Chances are good, but we won't know for sure until after it’s born. What do you think? Uncle Dean and Uncle Sam? Only if you want to be, that is.”_

Dean and Sam shared a glance. “That would be awesome,” Dean told Garth with a faintly flattered smile. Sam seconded the sentiment.

 _“So, Dean, I was looking into that spell like you asked,”_ Garth said, getting to the point of his call.

“And? What did you find?” Dean asked.

 _“Not too much,”_ Garth admitted. _“I called up some old contacts and looked through my books. Dean, Sam, this is, like_ really dark _stuff, even for a witch. As far as I can tell, and I can't be certain until I get a look at the original spell that was used, this is supposed to be permanent. That means no reversal spell. Now, I found some old Persian texts and one from China that have accounts that might help. I'm emailing you copies and a translation right now, but guys... I wouldn't hold out any hope until you can get your hands on the original spell. These ones only_ might _work, but I really can't promise anything.”_

Sam sighed. “Right now, something is better than nothing, which is what we have on that angle.” He checked his email. “Right. I got them. Thanks for that.”

_“Anytime boys. Bess and her dad want to know when you're coming to visit?”_

“Uh, we don't know,” Dean said. “Things are a little up in the air right now what with the case and all. Can we get back to you on that?”

 _“No worries,”_ Garth assured him affably. _“Just give us a call when you're in the area. Bess'll make dinner. You two crazy kids take care of each other now, you hear?”_

Sam smiled fondly. “We hear you. You give our love to Bess.” They exchanged brief goodbyes and Dean ended the call.

Dean leaned over to look at Sam's laptop. “So what'd he send?” he asked.

Sam looked through the photos of old manuscript pages with attached text translations. “What he said. Nothing about reversing it – sorry Spencer – but this one here, the Chinese text, talks about...” he peered at the screen, his eyes squinting a little as he read, “a mighty warrior who ran afoul of a sorcerer who turned him into a suckling babe as punishment for killing his wife.”

“Awesome,” Dean said flatly. “Does it say anything about him getting _adult_ again?”

Sam continued reading. He shook his head. “No. Nothing.”

“Well, that's a wash,” Dean complained.

“So, that was Garth?” Rossi asked.

Dean nodded. “Yeah, that was him.”

“He didn't sound very old.”

“He's a few years younger than Sam, I think,” Dean said. “Plenty old enough to be in the business.”

“He was a dentist,” Spencer said. “He doesn't like to talk about it, but apparently the tooth fairy isn't as nice as people like to think.” All around the room, excepting the Winchesters, people looked incredulously at Spencer. Spencer shrugged and went back to the background checks that Penelope had run on the book club witches.

“The tooth fairy? Really?” asked JJ.

“Apparently it was messy,” Sam told her, hardly looking away from his laptop. “He doesn’t like to talk about it. He tends to get really pale and shaky when you press the subject.”

“We're _really_ not kidding when we say that all this stuff is real,” Dean told her.

 

*

 

Dean was, by unanimous decision that did not include his opinion, benched from most of the field investigation. He protested the verdict loudly but Sam shut him down by citing the fact that if Dean got into a fight he'd be pretty useless with a busted up arm, not to mention all the other injuries. Hotch seconded that, telling Dean that he would best serve away from possible confrontations and would he help go through Elaine Burke's home once more to see if he could help them find something that they might have missed when the CSU techs went through the first time. The compromise was enough to stop Dean from scowling daggers at everyone, but not enough to make him happy, though he did agree to it.

Hotch got a call from the CSU techs that had been looking over the Impala. They hadn't found anything out of the ordinary – other than the utterly astounding arsenal in the trunk which explained to them why this car was given over into their hands, even if that wasn't the _actual_ reason. Hotch just rolled with that explanation. They did, however, find that someone had deliberately nicked the brake line. It was just enough that the fluid would have slowly drained throughout most of the day until, presto and voila! Car crash!

Dean got a very dangerously dark look on his face when he heard the report. When JJ mentioned Dean's reaction to Sam, Sam just pointed out that he and Dean had practically been raised in that car. “How would you feel if someone deliberately burned down your home and nearly got you killed in the process?”

She paused to think. “Not very pleased,” she decided. “I think I would want to find out who did it.”

“So now you know a little about how Dean's feeling,” Sam said, and dropped the subject.

JJ ended up going to Elaine Burke's home with Hotch, Spencer, and Dean. Sam, Derek, and Rossi went to try to interview Clair MacDonnell again. This time Penelope pinged her cellphone so they wouldn't miss her again.

The Burke house was police sticker-sealed. Hotch cut through the seal with a key, then let them all inside. The house was left just as Hotch remembered – and a little more picked over than Dean recalled, but then again he had left before the police party had really picked up. There was a taped outline of a fallen human form on the stairs, surrounded by an alarming amount of dried blood. No one paid it any attention.

“So,” said Dean before they started searching the house, “the grimoire is probably going to be old, leather bound, and hand written. It's also probably going to be big.” He measured out approximate dimensions with his hands. “Give me a shout if you find it.”

They spilt up. Dean started in the living room with Hotch. JJ and Spencer climbed the stairs to search the second floor.

Downstairs, Dean and Hotch looked through every bookshelf. They checked out the books, and then tapped the walls around the shelf in case there was a secret hidey hole. There wasn't any. The walls were sound and devoid of secrets. They moved on.

Above them, Spencer and JJ started in Elain's bedroom, where most of the occult materials were concentrated. Spencer sorted through herbs, mentally listing off what they were used for according to the internet sites that he and Penelope had found. JJ sorted through the closet. For the first few minutes they worked in comfortable silence.

“So,” JJ said after a while, “were you ever going to tell me about all of this?”

Spencer looked over at her. “About what?”

“All this... supernatural stuff,” JJ said, waving a hand.

“Would you have believed me?” Spencer asked her. “You're having a hard time believing it right now, and I've been shrunk back down to a _four year old_.”

JJ sighed. “True. I'm sorry; it's just all so... fantastic. What am I supposed to do now when Henri's scared of the monster in his closet? Tell him it's possible that it's real but don't worry, mommy won't let it eat you.”

“I don't know, Jayje,” Spencer admitted quietly. “It is better knowing, though, don't you think?”

“I really don't know, Spence,” JJ told him. She finished looking through the closet and moved on to searching around and under the bed. Spencer finished up with the herbs and miscellaneous occult tokens.

“Here,” he said, “pass me a flashlight and I'll check out under the bed.”

JJ found her flashlight, passed it to Spencer, and Spencer wriggled easily underneath the bed. He pushed the few shoe boxes out so JJ could go through them. Shining the flashlight around, he could not see anything out of the ordinary. After a thorough examination he crawled back out and dusted himself off.

“Nothing,” he told her.

“Nothing in the boxes either,” JJ said. They put the boxes back and moved on.

They didn't find anything at all upstairs. After searching through everything, Spencer and JJ went downstairs to join Dean and Hotch, who were working their way through the kitchen.

“Anything?” Hotch asked them when they came into the kitchen.

“Nothing,” JJ said, shaking her head.

“Are you alright, Dean?” Spencer asked.

Dean nodded, but he looked unhealthily white and more than a little green around his mouth. “I'm fine,” he insisted.

“No you're not,” JJ countered. “Have you taken your painkillers? Eaten anything?”

Dean shot her a scowl. JJ was unmoved. She gave him the same look she would give Henri when he was being purposefully stubborn. Dean looked down and away. He hunched his shoulders a little, muttering something under his breath as he fetched about for the prescription painkillers he was supposed to be taking. He swallowed one dose dry.

“Happy?” he asked JJ.

“Not really,” JJ said, “but it'll do for now. Have you two found anything?”

“No,” Hotch informed her.

So Spencer and JJ moved to help search downstairs, and it was JJ who found something interesting. It was a smudged pile of something yellow by the back door. She dabbed one finger in it to get a better look. Bringing it to her nose she made a face at the smell. “What is this?” she exclaimed, jerking her hand away. Her outburst brought the men (and former/will-hopefully-be-again-soon man) to her side. Dean noticed the yellow substance on her finger.

“Sulfer,” he said. “There's been a demon here recently.”

“How recently?” asked Hotch.

Dean shrugged. “A week, at most, I'd say, or sooner than that. Definitely before she was killed.”

“Is there any way to find out who the demon is?” Spencer asked.

“Not from just this,” Dean said, shaking his head.

“Too bad.”

“Things are never that easy,” Dean agreed.

 

*

 

Amanda loved working for the FBI, most days. Some days, cataloguing evidence and going over crime scenes was enough to turn a person to a hermit's life contemplating goats, but not every day. Some days they got really weird things hauled into the evidence garage.

The 1967 Chevrolet Impala looked like it was going to be one of the more mundane things in Amanda's working life – simple front end, driver's side collision. It was such a shame, really. The car looked to be genuine vintage. It would cost a king’s fortune to repair the damage, if someone even wanted to bother with troubling to repairing it and not just scrapping the car entirely.

She took photos and documented the exterior before popping the trunk open.

“Oh sweet merciful heavens,” she breathed. “It's the mother lode!”

 

*

 

Clair MacDonnell's cellphone pinged her at Lauraine Queens' home. Sam climbed out of the back of the FBI issue SUV and followed Derek and Rossi to the front door. Derek rang the doorbell. They could hear voices inside chatting in an amiably toned conversation. The door opened and Lauraine Queens stared dumbly at them for a moment.

“More questions?” she asked with a nervous frown.

“Not for you,” Derek assured her. “We're looking for Clair MacDonnell. We have some questions we'd like to ask her now.”

Lauraine studied them for a moment. Then she sighed and invited them inside her home. She led them into the kitchen where she introduced Clair MacDonnell and her husband Conner, who were both seated casually on barstools at the breakfast island. Derek and Rossi introduced themselves and Sam.

“Is there somewhere we can talk to you in private?” Rossi asked. 

Clair looked at Lauraine. “Can we use your living room?” she asked.

“Sure. Conner can help in here if he wants. I'll just be baking some cookies.” Lauraine raised an eyebrow at Conner, who grinned.

“You always know how to bribe me, Laurie,” he told her.

Clair rolled her eyes, but she was smiling fondly as she led Derek, Rossi, and Sam into the living room. “Have a seat,” she directed, taking one of the chairs for herself. “So I hear that you've been making your rounds. What can I tell you that you haven't already heard from someone else?” That garnered some raised eyebrows. Clair settled further into the chair. “You don't think I haven't heard that you're questioning Elaine's friends, do you?”

“That would be correct, Ma'am, we are,” Sam said, his voice respectful, but professionally authoritative. “Would you please tell us what you thought about her?”

“You mean before she died?” Clair asked. She glared at Sam, all broken glass and well-honed knife edges.

Sam only flinched a little. He got himself back under control in moments. “Yes,” he said, “before she died.”

Clair studied Sam for a long minute. Then she turned to Derek and Rossi and glanced over them as well. “Very well. Elaine was in mourning, as you know. It changed her. She used to be so full of life and energy. After Devon and Simon died she was left a shell of herself. I tried to help her through it. Elaine wouldn't accept help from anyone, though. She was proud, stubborn.”

“Was Elaine getting into anything that might cause her trouble?” Rossi asked. “Anything that maybe had you or someone else close to her worried?”

“No,” Clair said quickly. “Nothing like that at all. At least, not that I'm aware of.”

Rossi nodded. “Nothing at all?”

“I just said no.” Clair frowned at him. “Are you insinuating something, Agent?”

“Not at all, Ma'am,” Rossi said with a small, congenial smile. “We just need to be certain of all our facts.”

“Well, I've told you what I know. I don't know who killed her, or why they would want to, and I wish that this would all just go away.” Clair looked upset, colour high on her cheeks as she visibly tried to reign in her reactions.

“We're doing our best to conclude this investigation quickly,” Sam told her gently. “Unfortunately, investigations of this nature take time to be completed correctly. We're just doing our jobs.”

His words seemed to placate Clair somewhat. She nodded. “Is there anything else?”

Sam sneezed abruptly. It sounded suspiciously like a badly covered _“Christo.”_ The only reaction he got from Clair was a perfunctory “Bless you.” There went one more suspect for who the demon possibly could be. He bit back a sigh and looked at Derek and Rossi, raising an eyebrow.

They had a few more questions to ask her but halfway through an answer there was an alarming clatter from the kitchen. Something glass shattered and Conner exclaimed loudly, sounding very panicked. Sam made it into the kitchen first, just in time to see Conner crumple to the floor like a marionette with its strings cut. He spared half a moment for the man before Lauraine captured his attention.

Lauraine was a bloody mess. She was heaving over the sink, blood choking her breathing as it gurgled up with every cough and gasp. There was a smeared splash on the floor, and red hand prints on the counter and by the sink where he was trying to hold herself upright.

“Call an ambulance!” Rossi directed Derek.

“On it!” Derek responded.

“What's happening?” Rossi asked, trying to help Lauraine as she vomited up an alarming amount of blood.

“Hex bag,” Sam said. “I've seen this before. See if you can find it!”

Lauraine, who had looked up at Sam when he admitted to knowing about witchery, gasped. “Rodger,” she breathed, gagging. Pink bubbles of frothing blood collected at the corners of her mouth even as she vomited once more.

“Rodger?” Sam asked. He caught her under her arms as she sank, her knees losing their strength. He slowed her fall, gentling the decent until he was kneeling with her half reclining in his arms.

“Ro...” Lauraine choked once more. Then nothing.

Sam checked her pulse. Finding nothing, he laid her on the floor. “You can stop looking now,” he told Rossi.

“Paramedics are on their way,” Derek said, checking on Conner.

“Good. They can take a look at him,” said Sam meaningfully.

“Is she?” Derek asked.

“Yeah. Bled out. Not a nice way to go,” Sam told him. He got to his feet and looked down at the blood on his hands and on his suit. One thing about the life of a Hunter, you got really skilled in removing blood from just about anything. If you couldn't get the blood out of it, it was probably time to turn it into a cleaning rag anyways.

“She said something before she died. Does the name 'Rodger' mean anything to you two?” Sam asked.

Derek and Rossi shared a glance. Derek shook his head. “We'll have Garcia run it. Did she say anything else?”

“No. Just that.” Sam looked about the kitchen. “We really should find that hex bag. We can compare it to the one that killed Elaine.” Rossi agreed and continued his search for the deadly hex bag as he would search for any other discarded murder weapon. Derek helped. Sam went into the first floor bathroom and washed the blood from his hands. He took a moment to check on Conner before moving to help look for the hex bag.

The ambulance pulled in front of the house. Derek went out to direct the paramedics into the kitchen and fill them in on the current situation – one unconscious, cause uncertain, and one dead, from internal (and a little external) blood loss, as far as they could tell. Conner was revived without too much trouble, but he almost passed out again when he saw all the blood. He ended up losing the contents of his stomach into the toilet after a mad dash through the house. One paramedic followed to make sure he was alright while the other made the call that the Medical Examiner would be needed before they could remove Lauraine's body.

Rossi found the hex bag and quietly handed it over to Sam. Sam thanked him and, after helping himself to a plastic sandwich bag to wrap it in, tucked it into the inside pocket of his ruined suit jacket. He would compare the two hex bags that they had found when he got back to the motel.

“We'll need statements when we get back to the office,” Derek told Sam soberly. Sam nodded after the barest hesitation. Usually he and Dean were long gone when the bodies were discovered and statements even thought about. Either that, or he and Dean were the ones who were 'taking statements.' This would be an interesting change.

Something by the kitchen island, on the floor, caught Sam's notice. He stooped down to get a better look. It was a small pile of sulfur.

 

*

 

Brian Briggs arrived at the crime scene with a weighty sense of foreboding. Something about the way that this one had been called in made it sound like it was going to end up _one of those cases_. One of the weird ones; one of the ones that gets written off in the end as something plausible for the simple reason that there seems to be no _logical_ _medical_ reason for the victim to have died.

The FBI suits were still there when he hauled his kit in and set it on the kitchen island. He asked for a brief recounting of the events leading up to the poor woman's death and promptly got it from the tallest suit. The Tall Suit recounted what had happened in a crisp, almost military fashion. Brian knelt down and got to work. A CSU forensic photographer snapped pictures of the deceased for him.

The Black Suit mentioned that this was another death in a series that the FBI was working. Brian mentally applauded them for taking the weird cases, but a pessimistic part of his mind wondered how long they were going to waste time trying to solve the impossible.

Finally, it was the older, Mediterranean-looking Suit who asked him to call them when he had the results from the autopsy, and then ushered the Tall Suit and the Black Suit out of the kitchen to pick over the rest of the house and do whatever it was that feds were supposed to do while not getting in his way. Brian was glad they left. The less people tromping about his body, the better and more accurate he could be with his results.

 

*

 

When Dean finally asked about the Impala he was appalled to find out that she was in the cold and callous hands of the FBI – which was purely his sentiment, and not anyone's actual words. He nearly had a fit over it, ready to race off and rescue his Baby, until Sam physically wrestled him into a conveniently empty chair. He was cursing the painkillers fluently in a form of English that most – ie: _polite_ – people had no, or only a passing, knowledge of. He shot Sam a look of pure betrayal for allowing his Baby to be allowed into the clutches of the _FBI_.

“Calm down, Dean,” Sam said. Dean flipped him the bird. “They're not going to tear it apart.”

“Well, they might,” Derek teased from his desk.

Dean's eyes widened comically and he surged upward. Sam knocked him back down.

“Stop being an idiot,” Sam hissed. “You're attracting too much attention! Remember where we are!”

“Derek, that wasn't nice,” Spencer chided from his own chair, which had been pulled over next to Derek's desk. His frown was adorable. “Dean, don't worry about your car. Hotch only asked them to look into the damage from the accident. They shouldn’t take it apart.”

“And it's not like you can't put it back together if they do,” Sam reasoned.

“I will shave you bald in your sleep if they _do_ take her apart,” Dean swore, pointing a threatening finger at Sam. Sam sighed and nodded.

“Right. Anyways, the car isn't why we need to worry. It's what's in the trunk,” he said. 

Dean paused. Then he groaned deeply.

“Why? What's in the trunk?” JJ asked.

“You mean other than the illegal firearms, the machetes, knives, and a sword?” Dean asked sweetly. There was a collective wince. Dean could ooze _deadly_ when he really wanted to, demonstrating to all the room that he wasn't just a pretty face and should not be taken lightly.

Sam ran a hand through his hair. He had changed into his cleanest pair of jeans and his spare button down dress shirt after Lauraine Queens' gruesome murder in his arms. And didn't that just sound suspicious. “I can't believe we still have that sword in the trunk,” he murmured.

“Why do you have a sword in your trunk?” Derek asked them, his eyes wide. He leaned back in his chair to better look at the Winchester brothers.

Sam shrugged. “Some things can only be gotten rid of with a sword.”

Derek eyed him warily. “Right.”

“Can we get back to getting my car out of the FBI lockup?” Dean asked, gritting his teeth and scowling.

“Talk to Hotch,” Derek suggested. “He's the one who gave the order to have it brought in.”

Now Dean _did_ manage to lunge out of the chair. He shot up the stairs and around the mezzanine before letting himself into Hotch's office. Sam sighed, shook his head, and followed, hoping to ameliorate the probable damage.


	9. Chapter Nine

The BAU team retired to Derek's house after they clocked out that day. The Winchesters opted to head back to their motel for the night, not that they had been verbally invited to join. Sam called a car rental agency and arranged for a car to be dropped off for them at Quantico so that they could drive themselves back. Dean had not looked very happy with the silver hybrid that Sam had rented and Sam, quite obviously, didn't care about his opinion.

They did not all arrive at the same time. JJ had to pick up Henri from daycare, and Hotch had to pick Jack up from school. Rossi conspired against Derek and made a quick trip to a grocery store on his way in anticipation of taking over the kitchen and making some _decent_ food.

Spencer was very apprehensive about seeing Jack and Henri. They wouldn't recognize him and would expect him to act a child, as he seemed to be. He hadn't been very good at relating to children his own age when he had first been a child. Now that he had grown to adulthood, Spencer dreaded trying to act as a child would again. He was certain that he would be terrible at it. Again.

“Hey there,” Derek said when he caught Spencer face down in a sofa cushion and moaning. “What's the matter?”

“I'm not a child, Derek,” Spencer said, rolling over and staring up at Derek in melodramatic despair.

Derek frowned. “I know that.”

“I've never been good with children,” Spencer confessed.

“Now that's not true,” Derek protested. “You're wonderful with Henri.”

“But now I'm almost Henri's age! I was terrible with kids my age when I was a kid!”

Derek sat down on a chair opposite Spencer. “Yeah, but this is just Jack and Henri. You know them, Reid. You're good with them.”

“As an adult!” Spencer wailed.

“As you,” Derek insisted. “You play games with them, you colour with them. You essentially are just a much taller kid to them.”

“Gee thanks,” Spencer tried to sound offended. He ended up sounding more relieved than anything else.

Derek's phone chirped a text alert. He looked at it, frowned a little in easy confusion, and typed a reply. “I think Rossi wants to cook,” he commented.

“Is he shopping right now?” Spencer asked, grateful for the change of subject.

“Sounds like. He just said not to make anything for dinner.”

Spencer nodded. “Sounds like he wants to cook.”

And indeed, upon Rossi's arrival he took over the kitchen and filled it with the aromatic delights of olive oil, basil, and garlic. Penelope arrived just a few minutes later and set herself up on Derek's couch tossing friendly flirtations back and forth with Derek. Spencer, used to their banter, excused himself to the kitchen where he could sit on the counter and chat with Rossi while Rossi diced, minced, sautéed, and boiled. JJ and Will arrived with Henri first, then Hotch with Jack.

Spencer stayed hiding in the kitchen. He told himself that it wasn't cowardice that kept him sitting on the counter top. Rossi just shot him an amused smile, and Spencer knew without a word being said that he was not fooled for a second.

Eventually, though, Spencer could no longer hide out in the kitchen. Dinner was done, and the table was set. Everyone was called to eat.

Dinner was not as horrible as Spencer had feared. He was been seated at a corner of the table (which was filled past capacity _without_ the small bodies of children as well) between Rossi and Derek. He was introduced to Jack and Henri, who had already, apparently, been informed of his existence just before he emerged for dinner. Spencer did not know what they had been told. He wasn't going to offer anything, either.

The main topic for discussion over dinner was one that Spencer, ashamed to admit it, had not considered.

“So, how exactly are we supposed to explain 'murder by magic' when we're filling out reports?” Derek asked the table in general.

There was a round of grimaces that went about the table. “I think,” said Rossi, “that this will have to be something that gets handled on a case-by-case basis.”

“You mean a death-by-death basis,” JJ said with a bitten back sigh.

Rossi nodded. Henri tugged at his mother's shirt. “How long is Spencer visiting?” he asked. Spencer froze under the sudden influx of eyes that glanced his way.

“We're not sure, sweetie,” JJ told her son. “Maybe for only a little while.”

“Can we play together?” Henri asked her.

JJ looked over at Spencer. “You'll have to ask him. But not until after you've eaten, alright.”

Spencer desperately looked up at Derek and Rossi. They both smiled at him, looking more amused than he thought that they had a right to look. “You'll be fine,” Derek assured him once more. “Just relax.” Swallowing thickly, Spencer nodded and turned his attention back to his plate.

Dinner passed with a smattering mix of serious and jovial conversation. Henri and Jack told everyone about their days with expansive gestures and delightful drama. Spencer watched them, paying more attention than he normally would have in an effort to gauge just _how_ children were supposed to act. Eventually Jack and Henri could no longer be contained at the table. They wriggled away, dashing for the living room to play with a patiently waiting Clooney. Derek and Will volunteered to clear away the dishes. Spencer found himself listing to the side. Someone shifted his chair so he ended up leaning against Rossi's arm.

At some point Spencer felt someone lift him up. He whined. He didn't want to move. Someone hushed him and held him close. That was nice. Spencer relaxed more and let himself slip deeper into sleep.

 

*

 

Spencer woke with a startling jolt. He sat up, looking about the dark room in confusion. It took a minute to recall that this was Derek's guest bedroom, where he had been sleeping since he had been cursed back to childhood. After taking stock of himself (still dressed in his day clothes, though someone had taken off his socks when they had tucked him into bed) Spencer slid carefully to the floor (it was quite a drop for someone of his current size).

The house was quiet. All of the lights were off except for a couple lamps in the living room. Spencer tiptoed in that direction, not consciously trying to hide but finding himself to be sneaking down the hall anyways. He hugged his body to the walls and when he reached the end of the hall, where the lamplight cut soft lines radiating out of the living room, he froze. Deep male voices were talking. He recognized them all: Hotch, Rossi, and Derek. There wasn't a clock in sight, so Spencer didn't know what time it was. However, judging by the fact that he couldn't hear anyone else in the house he guessed that it was getting pretty late. He peeked his head around the corner and peered into the living room.

“You're awake,” commented Rossi. “Come, join us.”

Spencer trotted toward the small knot of men. Hotch and Derek had taken the armchairs. Spencer pulled himself onto the chesterfield next to Rossi. He looked around curiously.

“Where's Jack?” he asked Hotch.

“He's asleep on Derek's bed right now,” Hotch informed him. “I'll wake him when we head home.”

“We were just talking about you,” Derek admitted, his voice and expression serious.

“Is that so?”

“There are a few things we need to discuss, Reid,” Hotch said seriously. “Firstly, if this curse cannot be reversed, what are we going to do with you?”

“Oh.” Spencer looked down at his feet. They weren't even dangling off the edge of the sofa cushion. “Right. I can't just keep living in your guest room, can I?” he said to Derek. “I'd need a... _permanent situation_.”

“We won't let you go into the system,” Hotch promised him. “We wouldn't let that happen to you.”

Spencer nodded morosely. Of course they wouldn't. They probably though that after a few years of torment in the foster care system he would probably turn himself into a modern James Moriarty out of a blinding case of boredom and a need for revenge against the world. It wasn't a thought that Spencer was particularly pleased to entertain. The idea that it would be possible for him to become a Criminal Mastermind, capitals quite intentional for the title, made him just a little uncomfortable. He had the intelligence, the education, all that he needed was that dark spark of motivation.

“I don't wanna be Moriarty,” Spencer mumbled.

“What was that?” Rossi asked.

Spencer shook his head. “Nothing. Okay, so you're going to do what you can not to let me get put into the system. Thank you.”

“Reid. Spencer,” Derek looked into his eyes, “you're family. We're not going to let anything happen to you, you got that?” He did not look away until Spencer nodded his shaggy head. “Good. Now don't you dare forget that.”

“Alright, I get it,” Spencer insisted, flushing red. Hotch smiled at him. So did Derek. Spencer did not look to see if Rossi was smiling as well. He was embarrassed enough as it was.

“You are, however, correct in that we might need to sort out some form of permanent home for you,” Hotch continued. “Something will need to happen to your older self. The Doctor Reid who works for the FBI is not five years old.”

“Let's not kill me off just yet,” Spencer pleaded.

“No, no of course not,” Hotch assured him. “Nothing that drastic. Unless the inescapable need arises. Let us hope that it does not.”

“Agreed,” Spencer murmured.

“But you, as a five year old child, also cannot just appear out of the blue with no background or history without raising some inconvenient eyebrows,” Hotch said. “Would I be right in assuming that you would not care to live in a house with a child?”

Spencer nodded slowly. He really did not want to live with a child. It would not end well, not for anyone involved. He envisioned blood being spilled, probably his.

“Would you mind living with someone from our team, someone you already know?” Rossi asked.

It was tempting. So tempting. To live with someone who already knew him as an adult, who was already in the know concerning what had happened to him. Spencer looked up at Rossi. “That would be ideal,” he admitted slowly. “But I... I just don't want to be a burden to anyone.”

Rossi reached out and ran his hand fondly over Spencer's head. “You wouldn't be a burden, Spencer,” he said. “We would all love to have you stay with us, myself included.”

Something terrible occurred to Spencer. “I'm going to have to go back to school! To _elementary school!_ ”

His horror gave the older men pause. Then the corner of Derek's mouth twitched. Hotch covered his mouth and looked away. Rossi... Rossi Spencer would forgive. He looked contemplative and only the barest hint amused.

“That is something to consider,” Rossi agreed. “Although perhaps not just yet. We need to consider your supposed history and how we are to arrange for you to stay with one of us first.”

“We could, I don't know, falsify some paperwork, birth certificate and that sort of thing, saying that he was the child of a couple that died recently,” Derek suggested after he got his humor under control. “If one of us were to put our name in as the legal guardian named in case something had happened....”

“We'll have to talk to Garcia. See how she feels about... forgery,” Hotch looked like he had swallowed something distasteful. Not surprising, considering how Hotch felt about crime. He had two professions under his belt that were dedicated to combating it, after all.

“She'd be willing,” Rossi said surely, “if you would ask her nicely and promise not to tell anyone.”

Hotch nodded slowly. “I'll be sure to mention it to her. Hopefully we won't need to do any of this.”

“Yeah, hopefully we'll find a reversal spell or a counter curse,” Spencer agreed.

He wasn't very optimistic, though.

 

*

 

The next morning they all convened back in the BAU conference room. Along one wall were a couple of glassboards that they had been tacking photos and key information onto over the past few days. They did not have any mention of the women in the book club being witches (there still was not enough indisputable evidence for the FBI to definitively label them so, at least not where anyone could walk in and see). Instead they were linked by their book club relationship rather than as members of the same coven.

Hotch, for once, was not first into the office. JJ managed to beat him there by ten minutes. Rossi slipped in quietly without gaining any notice. Derek and Spencer rode the next elevator up, and Penelope had arrived some time just after dawn, beating them all there because that was just one of the things that made her so good at her job. Sam and Dean were escorted up just after 9:30.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” she said brightly when everyone had convened in the conference room and had found seats around the large round table. “We have news on Lauraine Queen's dying word: Rodger.” She clicked her remote at on the television screen behind her and two photographs popped up. The first was a DMV driver's license picture, the other obviously taken by a CSU photographer. “This is Rodger Hamilton – yes, if you are wondering if he has any relation with Judith Hamilton you would be correct. He was her husband. Died yesterday at – get this for creepy – _exactly_ the same time as Lauraine Queens. He was at work in one of his company greenhouses when he just suddenly started vomiting and choking up blood. Which is just disgusting.”

“He worked in a greenhouse?” Dean asked. “What did he do?”

“He was a horticulturist,” Penelope told him.

Dean cracked a grin. “So, what you're saying is that he was a shrubber.” Sam, seeing where Dean was going, closed his eyes and covered his mouth. “Wonder how many Rodger the Shrubber jokes he got. How many people demanded he make them a shrubbery?” Almost everyone was amused, despite themselves. Dean looked pleased with himself.

Penelope grinned at him. Then she turned back to her tablet. “Moving on. The lab results from the plant matter in the locket just came back. There were four different flowers found, and maybe you can make more sense of this than I can. There was pink verbena, scarlet pimpernel, white heather, and foxglove. Now, does that mean anything to you guys, because it doesn't to me.”

“Wasn't the Scarlet Pimpernel some French dude?” Dean asked Sam quietly.

Sam borrowed Derek's tablet and did a quick search through the legitimate Wiccan websites he used for reference. It took him a few minutes, but soon enough he had found what he was looking for. “Right. Got it. So, pink verbena is for 'family union,' a scarlet pimpernel means 'change,' white heather is 'wishes coming true,' and foxglove is 'youth.'” He looked up. “Seems pretty damning to me.”

“I'd agree,” JJ murmured. Spencer sighed.

“Now that we know what exactly was in the... curse,” Hotch got a funny look on his face, like he couldn't believe he actually, seriously, said what he had just said, “are we any closer to being able to reverse its effects?”

“We still need the grimoire,” Sam said regretfully.

“It's a bit like having all the ingredients for making pie, but no instructions or even an idea on _how_ ,” Dean explained helpfully. “You'll probably end up making a mess that won't taste a thing like pie. And in this case, it just might kill Spencer rather than fix him.”

“Right. So, we keep working on figuring out who killed Elaine, and now who killed Lauraine and Rodger,” Derek said.

“Have you looked at the hex bag from Lauraine Queens' house yet?” Hotch asked the Winchesters.

“Yeah,” Sam said. “It's not built the same as the one the killed Elaine Burke.”

“How so?” asked Rossi.

“The bags were both hand sewn,” explained Sam, “but the stitching was totally different. One was neat and straight, the other much more sloppy.”

Dean continued. “Then the bones used, the one that killed Elaine was much, much older than the one used to kill Lauraine. The one that killed Lauraine couldn't have been more than a decade old at most. Ergo, not the same maker.”

“Right, so we have at least two killers, maybe three,” said Hotch. “What do we know about Lauraine Queens and Rodger Hamilton that might connect them?”

“Not too much,” Penelope admitted. “Lauraine and Judith are – _were_ in the same book club. They did not live too far from each other. They both liked rock climbing and, oh, get this, they both, for the last six months, would go climbing at the _exact same time_. Could be innocent.”

“Could also be the start of an affair,” Spencer commented.

“That's never good,” said Derek.

“Did Judith know?” asked JJ.

Penelope shrugged. “I don't know. I haven't found anything yet that would point to her knowing, but the day is young and I have only just gotten started working my own personal brand of techno-magic.”

Hotch nodded and thanked her. Penelope smiled sweetly at him before retreating to her cave of computers. Everyone else started wading through the information that they had already gathered on the book club witches. It wasn't too long before Dean dragged Sam to his feet and got ready to leave.

“You guys do your,” he waved his hands vaguely, “ _psychology_ thing. Sammy and I'll check out the local magic shops. See what they know. That sound good to you?”

Hotch agreed, but Dean was already on his way out the door by that point. Sam promised to keep everyone updated on what they found out, receiving a like promise in return.

 

*

 

Sam drove the plastic silver hybrid. Dean absolutely refused to sit behind the wheel of the modern mass-produced mechanical windup toy (his words). Sam did not fight him very hard on the subject, happy to be able to drive without having to draw blood over it. So, since Sam was driving, Dean was in charge of the map. This wasn't a problem. Dean had been reading maps since he was six, maybe seven. After consulting the yellow-pages on the internet, not having a hardcopy of a phone directory and leaching off the free wifi of a nearby café, they had a lengthy and comprehensive list of shops that fit, however loosely, the description of a magic shop. Thus armed, they headed out for the first store.

Three hours later, over a salad (for Sam) and a triple bacon lovers delight burger (for Dean), they had crossed four shops off their list, but they hadn't found anything worth pursuing. It was the end of the lunch rush and, while there were still a lot of people in the faceless fast food restaurant, the place was far from packed.

“I always forget how many people _play_ at magic,” Dean commented around a mouthful of heart attack.

“Tell me about it,” said Sam. “That girl at the last store looked like she was high.”

Dean snorted. “Incense. Bet you a twenty it was the incense.”

“No bet.”

“So who do you think killed Rodger the Shrubber and Lauraine Queens?” Dean asked.

Sam hardly had to think about his answer. “My money would be on Judith, Rodger's wife. If Rodger _was_ having an affair, I can't imagine she'd be too happy about that.”

Dean nodded. He thought as much, too. “So, we gonna let the feds figure that out?”

Sam shrugged. “If we take out the demon she won't have much power backing her. They can send her to jail then. It's gonna take some figuring out how to explain how 'witchey wife magically killed husband and husband's lover without even being on scene to do it.' I don't envy them that.”

“Yet another reason why I'm not a real fed,” Dean said fervently. “Journals I can understand keeping. Notes on monsters, sure. But paperwork in _triplicate_? That's just wrong.”

Considering the small fact that Sam had run away and had been working his way into Stanford Law on scholarships before being dragged back into the 'Family Business,' he did not feel as if he were really allowed to have an opinion on the possible evils of paperwork. So, he just shoved another forkful of salad into his mouth and consulted their list of shops.

“Wonder what will happen to Spencer if we can't break this curse,” Sam mused.

Dean grimaced. “I'm sure his fed friends will think of something.”

“Probably.”

They finished their meal, tossed the trash away, and continued on their search. Two shops later they finally found something promising.

The shop was a little hole-in-the-wall alley-access business with only a sandwich board sign on the sidewalk to advertise its existence. It was cluttered, a little dusty, and lit by a few flickering florescent light bulbs that hummed in a surprisingly distracting key. Books were shelved low to the floor and on top of the tall shelves that played house to a myriad of glass jars. Most looked to be standard quart and pint sized mason jars. Some, however, were fat and short, some were large enough to hold gallons, and some were tiny little vials smaller than an adult's pinkie finger. They both noted with satisfaction the devil's trap covered somewhat by a small rug. This place just might prove to be with their time.

“Welcome to The Magic Shop,” said the proprietor, a very thin, bald man in his late fifties, from behind the counter. “Are you two looking for anything in particular?”

“Uh, Yeah,” said Sam. “What would you know about using these flowers in a curse?” He passed over the list of flowers used to curse Spencer. The man read the list over and scratched his cheek.

“Well, the foxglove is used often enough in beauty charms and the like. The verbena's used to counter family troubles – promotes familial union, see. The heather and the scarlet pimpernel... what did you say this curse did?”

Dean smiled briefly at the man. “We didn't.”

“Can you give us your best guess what they might mean together?” Sam asked.

The man studied the list again before passing it back. “Depends, I suppose, on who was cursed and why. Could be innocent enough, I suppose, but somehow I doubt it. Else you two boys wouldn't be looking into it, would you? Hunters?” Now Sam and Dean were impressed. Not many people could pick out hunters from a crowd.

“Yeah,” Dean admitted.

“Never hunted myself,” the shopkeeper admitted. “Get enough of them through my door, though. Name's Terrance Wrede. Call me Terry, everyone does.”

“Dean Winchester. This here is my brother, Sam.”

Terry's eyebrows shot up. “I've heard of you two. And of your daddy, but more of you. You have sure made a name for yourselves, did you know?”

“Yeah, we know,” Dean sighed. “This going to be a problem?”

“No, no,” Terry shook his head. “It's just not every day one gets underground celebrities through their door.”

“Celebrities?” Sam said, sounding surprised.

“Never been called that before,” Dean commented with an amused grin.

Sam got them back on track. “About the curse,” he said. “A witch used it on a friend of ours. He's four now.”

Terry whistled low. He looked both impressed and worried. “Well, that's one outcome I didn't think about. _Black_ arts, hmm? We don't carry anything like that, not usually. It's giving me the shivers just thinking about the things needed for a curse that powerful. Have you found the witch?”

“Yeah. She'd dead,” Dean told him flatly.

“Your doing?”

“Another witch did her in, as far as we can tell.”

“Well, that makes things more difficult.” Terry frowned. “I suppose that you don't have her grimiore.”

“You would be correct,” Sam told him. “It looks like someone took it either before or after killing her. We haven't been able to find it yet.”

Terry hummed thoughtfully. “Bad turn, that.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Sam said ruefully. “Do you know of anything else that might help, either to break the curse or, I don't know, find the grimoire?”

Terry thought about it. “I might,” he said hesitantly. “Don't promise they'll do the trick, but I do have a few books here on breaking curses. You might find something useful in them. Don't know any spells that would help you find a _book_. That's a little too... trivial for location spells to home in on.”

“That's fine,” Sam told him. “Whatever you've got will be great.”

With an absent nod, Terry rounded the shop counter and, after finding an old step stool, started hunting for books. He pulled three slim volumes down from where they had been stacked near the ceiling. He passed those to Sam. Then he started on the books low to the floor. He found two more.

“This is it,” he admitted. “Nothing Black, mind you. Nothing that would take a Deal to make work for you. Just your regular hoodoo. Do you want them?”

Sam, who had been flipping through the books, nodded. “Yeah. We'll take 'em.”

Terry rang up the books and Sam paid. As Sam was paying Terry offered to write them up a list of other shops in the city that knew about and sold actual magical items, books, and the like. By the time Sam and Dean left The Magic Shop they had that list, and a list of names of hunter-friendly hoodoo practitioners with their numbers.

“So, what do you wanna do?” asked Dean as they climbed back into the plastic car with their purchases. “Do you wanna go through those books now, or hit those other shops?”

Sam thought about it. He turned the ignition and pulled out into traffic. “Let's check out the other shops. See if any of them know anything else that might help.”

 

*

 

Amanda's case load was always over full. Agents kept putting rushes on logged evidence as if their cases were the _most_ important. Finally, after a mind-numbing day of collected hair and dirt samples, she was able to get back to the wrecked Impala. After pulling on a pair of gloves Amanda got to work.

She photographed the trunk as she had found it. The weapons, while there was an overabundance of them, weren't what had her puzzling. Rather, it was the many bottles of water, all marked with a simple cross. Then she found the twenty pounds of rock salt.

Rock salt?

 

*

 

Hotch's phone rang. After a brief glance at the caller ID he answered it, putting it on speaker so everyone in the conference room could be included. “What do you got, Garcia?” he asked.

“So much incriminating evidence for our illicit love birds, boss,” she told him. “I have credit card information placing them at the same restaurants at the same time. I have emails. I have photos, and these two were most definitely not just taking the same pottery class! I'm sending everything to you now. Oh, and get this, Rodger Hamilton had been making _quite_ a few calls to his attorney as of late. I am sending you his information as well as we speak.”

“Good work,” Hotch praised her before hanging up.

Derek was already opening the emails that Penelope sent them. There was the promised information, the pictures, and the lawyer's contact information. “Someone should go talk to the lawyer, see what Rodger Hamilton was discussing with him.”

Hotch concurred. “Go with Rossi,” he directed. Derek and Rossi collected their jackets and headed out.

Spencer watched enviously as Derek and Rossi left. He was upset – angry, even – that this had happened to him. And why? Because he looked like some psychotic witch's dead son. Now he couldn't even do his own job properly because he looked like he was _four_! He couldn't stay in his own apartment because he was _four_. He couldn't cook, he couldn't _do_ anything _because he was four_.

He could feel the walls of the conference room pressing inwards. Voices swam around him, blurring together incomprehensibly in a finger painted mess of sound. He tried shaking his head, but that did nothing to help. He needed to get out, to get away to somewhere quiet.

“Bathroom,” he muttered when JJ asked where he was going. He let himself out of the conference room. No one followed him, for which he was intensely grateful. If they had, he did not know what he might say in his current mood. They might be stifling and overprotective at the moment, but they were still his friends and Spencer was a grown man, well above throwing a childish tantrum, even if that was all he really wanted to do.

On his way to the men's bathroom – he really had _intended_ on going there when he had left the conference room – he made a lightning-quick detour when the elevator doors slid open. He projected an air of confidence: if he looked like he was supposed to be there people were less likely to take notice of him. Full-sized adults, four of them, filed into the elevator. One looked down at him briefly, frowning. Spencer just casually shifted a little closer to another agent, pretending that he was being escorted. The attention paid to him passed and the elevator door slid open again. Act as if you belong and people won’t notice you. That was from Doctor Who, and it worked.

If Spencer had been thinking about it, he would have been surprised at how easy it was for a confident four year old boy to leave the FBI building in Quantico, and board a bus without anyone noticing that he was unaccompanied by an adult. As it was, he counted himself fortunate that no one paid him much mind. He was certain to attach himself quietly to adults as if he belonged to them.

The bus he had gotten onto had a route the drove past a park. Spencer got off at the stop nearest the park's entrance. There were a handful of parents and caregivers with children playing on the playground. A few pensioners were at the tables, a few of them with chessboards. Now that Spencer had arrived he hesitated. He was four – he _looked to be­_ four. A four year old would head for the play equipment, maybe seek out other children.

But he wasn't _really_ four.

But he looked like he was four.

Spencer groaned and pulled at his hair before giving in and trotting off to the green. He could putter around over there without looking out of place enough to notice, but still be removed enough that he would not have to act too much his apparent age. Since the weather had been dry enough over the last week Spencer had no problems with sitting down on the bare grass. He watched the children, their guardians, and the woman walking her dog.

He sat there for a good while on his own before one of the little boys that had been playing on the monkey bars decided to investigate Spencer. Spencer noticed the approach, watching the little boy with trepidation.

“What'cha doing over here?” asked the little boy.

“Nothing,” Spencer told him.

“Why aren't you playing?”

Spencer didn't have an answer for that. He stared mutely at the little boy who took his silence for shyness, grabbed his hand, and pulled him to his feet. Spencer abruptly found himself upright and being pulled towards the playground. Stymied as for what he should do, Spencer allowed himself to be manhandled.

“I'm Seamus,” the little boy told him. “What's your name?”

“Spencer.”

Seamus nodded and challenged Spencer to a race up to the top of the slide. Spencer hesitated for a brief moment before deciding to throw maturity to the wind and _play_. He scrambled after Seamus.

It was strange, he thought somewhere in the back of his mind, how easy it was to forget and enjoy, even just for a moment. As he climbed to the top of the play tower where the slide began Spencer found himself being swept away in the energy of Seamus and the other children. It was infectious. For a few minutes Spencer was able to laugh – which honestly surprised him silent for a moment – and forget, for just a while, that he really hated his life as it currently stood.

Not for too long, though. He never had been that easily distracted.

 

*

 

“Where's Spencer?” JJ asked, as she glanced about the conference room.

Hotch paused and frowned at her. “He didn't come back?”

She shot him a 'do _you_ see him here?' look. He grimaced and they both shot to their feet and strode out onto the mezzanine. Hotch searched the offices. JJ looked about the bullpen. Hotch checked the men's washroom. When neither found him anywhere Hotch pulled out his phone and called Penelope.

She opened the call with “What can I do for you, O Fearless Leader of Mine?”

“Garcia, can you put a trace of Reid’s cellphone?” he asked.

“Certainly can,” she said promptly. Then she asked, sounding a little confused, “Has our good Dr Reid lost it?”

Hotch hesitated a moment too long. “Something like that.”

There was an ominous pause. “Did you lose Spencer?” she asked in a scandalized stage whisper. “You _did_!”

“Have you found his phone yet?” Hotch asked pointedly. She gave him the name of the park and sent the GPS coordinates to his phone. He thanked her, ended the call, and motioned for JJ to follow him. They had a wayward doctor to pick up.

 

*

 

“Did your mum bring you here?” Seamus asked Spencer when he had tired of the slide. They were lying across the swings on their bellies, kicking at the ground when their little legs could reach it to make the swings swing.

“She's in Vegas,” Spencer told him. He felt no shame admitting that to a child.

Seamus looked only mildly interested. “That's on TV lots,” he said with an obvious lack of understanding as to its geographical location relative to himself.

“It's on the other side of the country,” Spencer explained.

“Why's she there?”

“Because she's sick. She's in hospital.”

“Oh. Then she's gonna get better?” Seamus asked.

No, Spencer though. She's never going to get better. One did not get better from acute paranoid schizophrenia, but he did not say that. He just offered a noncommittal “Maybe.”

Seamus frowned a little at him. “No?”

Spencer scuffed at the ground with his sneakers. “She's really sick,” he admitted.

“I'm sorry,” Seamus told him. Spencer smiled and told him not to worry about it. “Are you living with your dad then?”

Spencer shook his head.

“Spence!”

Spencer tipped off the swing in shock. He landed in a crumple on his back before twisting upright and searching out the source of the voice. JJ was approaching him, looking quite relieved and concerned. Spencer could see Hotch hanging back a little, but only by a few metres.

He was busted.

“Hi JJ,” he said nervously. “This is Seamus. We've been playing.”

JJ crouched down in front of Spencer and smiled at Seamus. “Nice to meet you Seamus. Have you and Spencer been having a good time?” she asked. Seamus confirmed that yes, they had been having a _great_ time. “That's wonderful. Now, Spencer, it's time to go. Are you ready?”

Spencer sighed. “Do we have to?” he pleaded. JJ was surprised. She had not expected that reaction from her best friend. Stymied, she glanced back at Hotch. He looked just as surprised.

“Spencer, what's wrong?” JJ asked.

Biting his lip, Spencer couldn't look his friend in the eye. “Nothing,” he mumbled.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

It was an innocent question, so loaded. It shot through Spencer like a bullet. The impact was unexpected, uncontrolled. He could feel everything inside him crumbling, the dam holding back the frustration, the irritation, all the accumulated stress shattered under the pressure of a simple, seven word long question from his best friend.

Spencer started crying.

JJ gathered him close. He clung to her, burying his face in her neck in a shameful attempt to hide the tears that just refused to stop. She picked him up.

“Is it because his mummy's sick?” Seamus asked in desolate concern. Spencer clung tighter to JJ.

“Maybe, sweetie,” JJ said to Seamus. “I'm going to take him home now. Don't worry; I'll take good care of him.”

Spencer managed to wave at Seamus over JJ's shoulder as JJ started back towards the parking lot. Seamus waved back.

“What's wrong?” Hotch asked, falling into step beside JJ.

“Not sure,” JJ murmured. She rubbed against Spencer's back in gentle, soothing circles.

“I don't wanna be little,” Spencer moaned wetly. “I'm not supposed to be little!”

JJ shared a concerned look with Hotch. Spencer had been so accepting of what had happened to him so far. It had looked like he had been taking the transformation better than anyone else, keeping a positive face while JJ felt her world get rocked. It was almost comforting to have proof that Spencer was not as unaffected as he tried to seem.

“I know,” she told him. Hotch unlocked the SUV and JJ crawled into the back. She arranged Spence on her lap. “Let it out, Spence,” she advised him, stroking his hair. Hotch stood, observing quietly by the still open door.

“I _hate_ being little!” Spencer declared furiously. “I'm supposed to be able to take care of myself. I've been doing it for _years_. Now I can't even buy groceries. It's embarrassing! I just wanna be big again. I wanna be able to go to work and drive and I wanna be able to go home without people _wondering_.” This was all confessed through deep, gulping sobs. JJ and Hotch, both parents to little boys and well versed in child-speak, could only understand about half of what Spencer was trying to say.

Feeling her heart breaking under the emotional onslaught JJ hugged Spencer tighter. Spencer fisted his hands in her shirt. She stroked his fine blond hair, hair that was much lighter as a child than it had been when he had been grown. It was now only a shade, maybe a shade and a half, darker than her own hair. She and Hotch weathered Spencer's sob-garbled rant, let him vent. Eventually, the sobs slowed down, the words faded to a discontented mumble, and Spencer wilted.

Cautiously, JJ used a tissue and wiped away the tears and the snot on Spencer's face. Her top was a write-off. It was soaked with the aforementioned tears and snot. “Feeling better?” she asked Spencer softly.

“No,” Spencer said, shaking his head. “No, I'm not.”

“I'm really sorry, Spence,” JJ murmured into his hair.

“I haven't even been allowed to go home since I got cursed,” he complained. “I wanna go home, JJ.”

“We can do that,” JJ promised him, looking up at Hotch. “We can do that.


	10. Chapter Ten

They had to stop by Derek's to pick up Spencer's keys. JJ called Derek on the way to his house for the location of the spare house key. He told her without hesitation, and then he asked what they were up to. JJ told him, watching Spencer as he dozed in the car seat beside her.

“I didn't even think about that,” Derek admitted.

“None of us did, I think,” JJ told him.

Hotch drove them to Derek's house where JJ found Spencer's keys, letting him sleep in the SUV with Hotch. She climbed back into the SUV, briefly flashing the keys to Hotch as she settled herself. Spencer did not stir at all.

When they pulled into Spencer's apartment complex JJ gently roused Spencer. He waved aside JJ's hands and unclipped himself from the safety harnesses on the car seat, but allowed JJ to carry him, since he was still very exhausted from his earlier, and very embarrassing, crying fit. JJ gave Hotch Spencer's keys. They made their way to Spencer's floor and Hotch unlocked the door for them.

JJ set Spencer down. Spencer looked around his apartment with trepidation. It was just how he had left it. The books were tidied away, except for the ones he was rereading for pleasure. A large mug of coffee was on the coffee table in the living room, cold and mostly empty. The throw was still in a crumple on one end of the sofa. Everything was just as he had left it.

But it was so much _bigger_ than he recalled.

“Can we help you with anything?” JJ asked kindly.

“No,” Spencer said immediately. “No. I just... I just want to collect some things.” He darted off into his bedroom and pushed the door closed behind him. He was so confused. Everything was disorienting and surreal. Looking about his bedroom, somewhere intimate to him, he almost did not recognize it. It was the vantage point, he reminded himself. He was shorter, so things seemed bigger. Nothing was changed, just him.

An unexpected wave of fury blasted through him. How _dare_ Elaine Burke so what she had to him! How _dare_ she try to play god with his life. Grief was no excuse!

The rage energized him. He stalked about the room, stripping one of his favorite blankets off the bed and spreading it out on the floor. Some books were piled on top of the blanket. He found the files and notes he had made on the Winchesters and put them on the blanket as well. Then he found some photographs of his mother, his pillow, and a few other odds and ends. By that point the rage had burned itself out, leaving behind a curious flatness.

Spencer stared at the pile he had made. He had heard only a little from JJ and Hotch. Some talking, some running water in the kitchen. Presumably, judging from the duration that the water was run for, someone had washed up the small amount of dishes he had left lying about. Deciding that that was all he wanted at the moment from his bedroom, Spencer folded the corners of the blanket together then opened the bedroom door.

“Can someone please help me with this?” Spencer asked carefully, peering out into the apartment proper to catch sight of Hotch and JJ. They both responded, appearing from the kitchen.

“What's all this?” Hotch asked curiously.

Spencer shrugged, feeling irrationally defensive. “Just some things.”

“Do you want to take these with you back to Derek's?” JJ asked. Hotch was already lifting the blanket and its contents carefully. Spencer nodded and leaned against JJ's thigh.

“Everything's really confusing, JJ,” he admitted after Hotch had taken the blanket bundle into the living room.

“I can imagine,” JJ said. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Spencer shook his head. He didn't want to talk about it. Then he contradicted himself by admitting, “I don't feel like myself sometimes.”

“What do you mean?”

He took a few moments to gather his thoughts. He dragged his hands over his face. “I'm _needy_ now,” he complained. “I actually _like_ being picked up and cuddled. I don't understand things the way I used to. It's confusing, JJ. I don't understand what's happening to me!”

JJ sunk down to her knees and gathered him close. “Oh Spence,” she murmured. It broke her heart to hear her friend's troubles, to watch him as he suffered. “Maybe it's the curse. Maybe, because you look like you're four, you're acting like it as well.”

“But I'm _not_ four!” Spencer wailed.

“I know. I know,” JJ assured him, rocking him gently on her lap. “I know that. But maybe it's just due to the physical change. I know that you're mentally the same Spencer I know and love, but Spence, _children are different than adults_. You know that. They're still developing. Everything about them is still growing. If you are _physically_ a child right now, it would make sense that you would be experiencing things as a child would.”

Spencer digested her words. He should have come to that conclusion on his own. He would have, under normal circumstances. “I don't like it,” he told her.

“We're working on it,” JJ said uselessly.

“I know. I know that there isn't a good chance that there will be a counter. I'm gonna be stuck like this forever.” Spencer sighed gustily with unintentional melodrama and pressed himself closer.

“I hope not,” JJ teased. “I'll be losing one of my best babysitters!”

Spencer drooped. “Now, legally, I need a babysitter,” he moaned.

JJ huffed. There were certain times that children – and adults who had been magically turned into children, apparently – were the worst to try to reason with. Everything that was said to them could be twisted about in to knots until it was the worst thing in the world. Spencer was clearly getting himself into one of those moods. She was not going to play along. “Is there anything else you want to bring right now?”

“Yeah,” Spencer nodded, pulling away. “There's a box in my office I want you to go through.”

“Oh?” JJ asked, getting to her feet and following Spencer to the second bedroom which had been redone as his office.

“Yeah. It's all my research on the Winchesters and their cases.”

“Oh.” JJ wasn't sure what to say.

Spencer just said, “I only want you to look it over. Make your own judgments based on the facts.”

“Alright. I'll do it,” JJ told him. They fetched the file box from the office – clearly labeled _DW & SW: Research'_ on the lable side.

“Anything else?” Hotch asked.

Spencer glanced about. He shook his head. “This should be fine,” he said quietly.

Hotch hefted the blanket bundle and said, “Do you have something else we can put this in? Something more secure?”

They found the suitcase in the top of the hall closet and transferred the contents of Spencer's blanket bundle into that instead. Spencer half folded, half stuffed the blanket around everything before either Hotch or JJ could ask if he wanted that brought as well. He did. He wanted his own blanket and he wanted his own pillow. He wanted them, and he _would_ have them. It might be childish, but...

Now he was angry again. He also wanted to cry. Irritated with himself Spencer dashed the tears before they could fall, breathing deep in an effort to calm himself enough that he would not embarrass himself _again_ in such a short while.

“Are we good to go?” Hotch asked as he helped Spencer zip up the stuffed suitcase.

“Yeah,” Spencer admitted reluctantly. He did not want to have to live with Derek. Not that there was anything wrong with Derek, but they were _so different,_ fundamentally, having absolutely nothing to do with Spencer being white and Derek being black, and more to do with Spencer being a skinny little nerd who loves magic tricks and Derek being a buff god of home renovations. Seriously, the man would tear down walls just for fun, and Spencer – on a good day, when he was still an adult – struggled moving furniture. About the only major thing that they had in common was their job. They were still friends; they were just friends with no hobbies in common.

Maybe if he lived on the internet like Penelope did he wouldn't be so worried about people viewing him as a child. They wouldn't even need to see him. It would make things so much easier.

That still wouldn't fix his current, imposed, living situation, though.

JJ led the way out of his apartment with Hotch taking up the rear, locking the door behind them. Spencer trotted, dejected and subdued, between them. Juggling the box of Winchester research slightly JJ pushed the button for the elevator. While they waited Spencer leaned his head against her thigh and sighed. He just wanted all of this to be over and done with.

 

*

 

Sam and Dean were impressed with the quality of shops that Terry had directed them to. Three of them had recommended books on countering hexes and breaking curses, and even with cautions that they may not work – no one had ever heard of a de-aging spell – Sam was buzzing with delight. He had new books. That simple fact made him happier than a pig in a wallow. Dean had managed to find himself a handful of interim weapons to replace the ones that had been in the trunk of the Impala and that he would probably never see again.

They drove back to their motel late that afternoon. Sam started reading through the books immediately. Dean reluctantly took the keys to the plastic car and left to pick up dinner. Most of the books were in English. Two were in French – not a problem, Sam could read French. The last one was handwritten in Persian. Sam wasn't certain what to do with that one. Persian wasn't his best language. He decided to try reading it last.

After stacking the books on the little motel table Sam pulled out his phone and fired off a brief text to Spencer. _Found some promising shops. How are things with you?_

He set his phone to one side and pulled the first book of the stack. With his laptop open on his right, Sam started reading.

 

*

 

Spencer was plugging his night light into the outlet when his phone chimed with a text alert. He ignored it in favour of checking to make certain the little light bulb would still work properly. It was irrational to be afraid of the dark, but he couldn't help it. Irrationality, and all that jazz. When he was satisfied that the night light would work when he needed it Spencer checked his phone.

_Found some promising shops. How are things with you?_

It was from Sam. Spencer did not want to answer at the moment. He honestly did not know what to say. How were things? Horrible. He hated being four again. But that wasn't what Sam wanted to hear. Sam wanted to know about the investigation into Elaine's murder, into the murders of Rodger Hamilton and Lauraine Queens. He wanted to know more about what the FBI had found on the coven.

Spencer didn't want to even contemplate that hateful lot in the mood that he was currently in.

“Hey, Spence,” JJ said, poking her head into the bedroom. “Derek's on his way. Hotch and I'll be staying until he gets here.”

“You don't have to,” Spencer told her. “I only look like a child.”

JJ gave him a look. “That's the point,” she said.

Spencer scowled and pulled a book out of his suitcase. “I hate it,” he declared. “I hate it, I hate it, I _hate_ it!” He threw the book at the far wall. It only stayed airborne for three feet before it landed in a page-spread sprawl. JJ pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes.

“Really?” she asked him archly. “A tantrum? I thought you weren't actually four.”

The challenge shot through him. He stared up at her in shock. She was right. He was better than this. He looked away in shame. Picking up the book and straightening the crumpled pages he shuffled back to JJ. “You're right. I'm sorry,” he told her, unable to look any further up than her ankles.

JJ sunk to her knees and brushed his hair away from his face. “I know. It's not all your fault. This is harder on you than it is on anyone else. You have a right to be angry. Just, please, don't take it out on us. We're just trying to help and we're feeling just as lost and helpless as you are concerning this curse.”

“I know,” Spencer said softly. “I'm sorry. How long until Derek gets here?”

“He's about thirty minutes out,” JJ told him. Spencer nodded, looking uselessly down at the book in his hands. It was getting really heavy. He put it back in his suitcase.

“What's Hotch doing?” he asked her, desperate for a subject change.

JJ looked uncertainly over her shoulder like she did when she wasn't sure what was going on elsewhere. “Uh, I think he was talking to Garcia. She's still looking through occult websites or something.”

“Oh.” Spencer knew that. “Did she find anything?”

“Not sure?” JJ said with a faint grimace. “Probably not. I don't know.”

Spencer bit his lip. He silently pointed in the direction of the living room, where Hotch presumably was. JJ nodded and stood up, letting him dart around her. She followed him out of the bedroom at a more sedate pace.

“Did Garcia find anything?” Spencer asked Hotch when he saw him.

Hotch, who had been flipping through a book of Derek's – a true crime novel like what Rossi would have written – looked up at his youngest agent. “She found a few things that might pan out,” he told Spencer. “She's forwarding them right now to the Winchesters to get a more experienced opinion.”

“Oh.” So nothing new then. Spencer was disappointed. He tried not to let it show. Apparently, he failed because Hotch beckoned him to come closer. Spencer did, dreading the sympathetic platitudes. And sure enough, he got them. It was not like Spencer didn't appreciate it all; it just got really tiring to hear. He nodded and said a heartfelt and honest thank you. Then he vanished back into the guest bedroom.

He picked up his phone and sat down on the floor beside the bed, keeping it between himself and the half-closed door. He pulled up the text message from Sam and typed a reply.

_Ran away for a while. Got caught. Went home and picked up a few things. Back at Morgan’s. Any luck?_

He held the phone close to his chest for a moment before laying it aside and crawling over to his suitcase. He fetched his book and returned to his spot by the bed. While other children had stuffed animals or action figures he had had his books. With an eidetic memory there was really not actual _need_ to reread books, but Spencer found it pleasant, like listening to the same song even though you knew the words and the tune. It was fun.

His phone chimed.

_Found some books. Reading them now. No one we talked to was very hopeful, tho. Sry._

Spencer put the phone down in disgust. More of the same. No hope, no hope. He felt a little like he was reading the message on the gates to Hell: _'all hope abandon, ye who enter in.'_ Dante just got a tour of Hell, Spencer had worked a good part of his life trying to keep it from spilling over onto Earth... metaphorically speaking, since there was, apparently, an _actual_ Hell.

It was still enough to boggle the mind when he paused to think about it. Oh, how the philosophers and theologians would love to be told that! Although it begged the question, if one did not believe in either Heaven or Hell, where did one's soul go upon death? Was the admittance into either belief-based?

And that was more than enough existential speculations for him at the moment. Although he did want to meet Castiel, an actual Angel of the Lord. How many people could say that they had met an Angel without already being diagnosed as clinically insane? Probably more people than anyone really knew, but that was beside the point.

He picked the phone up again and typed another message for Sam.

_Anything I can do to help?_

The reply was not long in coming: _Not at the moment._ Then, another came rapidly on the heels of the first: _How's your Persian?_

Persian? Spencer stared at the word. What did Persian have to do with... oh. One of the books was probably written in Persian rather than English. How odd.

 _Abysmal, sorry. Never studied it,_ he tapped into his phone and sent to Sam.

Sam replied: _How about I work on that one then. You can look through the English books._

 _How many books are there?_ Spencer asked, interested, diverted for the moment from his wallowing in self-pity.

_In English? 13. It'll take Dean and me at least a couple days to go through them by ourselves._

Spencer was curious about the qualifier Sam had used. _Any other languages?_

 _Just French,_ Sam wrote. _I can read that._

That was interesting. Spencer asked Sam what other languages he spoke. Sam explained that he only really spoke English and Classical Latin but he could read a handful of languages comfortably and about a dozen more with a dictionary on hand. Sometime during that explanation Derek returned home. JJ and Hotch said their goodbyes to Spencer. Spencer gave JJ a hug and apologized again. She just told him not to worry about it and said they'd see each other again in the morning.

Finally, it was just himself and Derek in the house. They eyed each other awkwardly.

“You don't have to worry about me,” Spencer told him. “I picked up some of my books from my apartment today. And I'm texting Sam.”

Derek raised a thick eyebrow. “What about?” he asked.

“Right now? How many languages he reads,” Spencer told him. He glanced down at his phone, and then turned the screen up to Derek so he could read what had been sent. Derek took the phone and read through the conversation. The more he read, the more impressed he looked. When he handed Spencer his phone back he shook his head.

“Wouldn't have pegged either of them for the literate types,” he commented.

“Sam did get into Stanford on scholarships,” Spencer reminded him.

Derek shrugged. “Yeah, but that was years ago. He dropped out, didn't he? I'm just saying that neither of them _looks_ like someone who knows what a book is for. Not unless they're playing a part, anyways.”

“And yet,” Spencer waggled his phone meaningfully.

“Yeah, yeah,” Derek rolled his eyes and started down the hall. “What do you want for dinner?” he called over his shoulder. Spencer didn't have an opinion and told Derek such. He went back to his book and his texting conversation.

Tomorrow might be a better day for him.


	11. Chapter Eleven

Indeed, tomorrow looked like it would be a _much_ better day for Spencer. He had talked Derek into dropping him off at the Winchesters' motel room to help with the research party. They did run the plan by Hotch beforehand. He approved. It would give Spencer something to do by which he could feel as if he were contributing. So, Derek drove Spencer to the motel across town before he headed for work. He walked Spencer to the door and rapped three times in a woodpecker-like staccato. It was a long minute before the door opened. Dean stared blankly at Derek. He looked down at Spencer. Then he checked his watch, cursed and turned back into the room, leaving the door open.

“Sammy!” he called, his voice rough. He snatched up a pillow and chucked it hard at Sam's head. Sam mumbled something rude and pulled his blanket up over his head. “Gittup Sasquatch,” Dean said. “Spencer's here.”

That got Sam's attention. “Wha?”

“Hi Sam,” Spencer said as he crawled up onto one of the chairs. “Are these the books you bought yesterday?”

“Yeah,” Dean told him. “Sam was up all night working on this one,” he tapped a finger against a thick volume that was lying open on the table.

“What time is it?” Sam asked as he pushed himself upright.

“Early,” Derek told him. He turned to Spencer. “I'll see you later?”

Spencer nodded. “Unless something happens to change our plans. You have a good day at work.”

Derek nodded. He glanced over at Dean and then at Sam. Then he turned on his heel and left, closing the door behind him. Spencer pulled the Persian book towards himself so he could get a look at its pages. Sam, who had found his phone and checked the time for himself groaned and fell back onto the bed.

“I'm going back to sleep,” he declared, his voice flat and exhausted.

“How long were up last night?” Spencer asked.

“'Til about three hours ago,” Sam mumbled into his pillow as he arranged himself for sleep again. Dean snorted and snatched up the room keys and his wallet.

“You had breakfast yet?” he asked Spencer. Spencer nodded. “Awesome. I'll be back in a few. You want anything? Hot chocolate? I ain't givin' anybody your size coffee, so don't even ask.”

“Hot chocolate's fine,” Spencer relented. He wasn't really feeling the need for coffee at the moment anyways. It had been starting college at fifteen that had gotten him hooked on coffee. Being so much younger than everyone else, having to care for his ailing mother, and study for classes, there had been little time to waste on sleep.

Dean nodded easily and left him alone in the motel room with a sleeping Sam. Spencer watched the door close and heard it lock. He glanced over at Sam, who had his back to the room as a whole as he burrowed underneath the blankets on the motel bed. There was a distant sound of a car leaving the parking lot. Spencer assumed that that was Dean. At last he was alone – for all intents and purposes.

Spencer settled down on the chair, kneeling so he could see over the lip of the tabletop, with the Persian book in front of him. He flipped through the pages, pausing at the illuminations and the illustrations. As expected, he could not understand the words written. He set the Persian book aside and found one of the ones written in English.

Research was one thing that Spencer was very good at. He carried the book he had taken off the pile and moved onto Dean's unmade bed. After straightening the covers and rearranging the pillows Spencer settled down against the pillows and spread the book open before him, resting on his legs so he wouldn't have to hold it up to read. Maybe it was just the dramatic change in perspective, but Spencer could not recall books being as heavy as he was finding them now.

Dean returned with a couple of bags and a drink tray with two to-go cups. He raised an eyebrow at Spencer on his bed. “I ain't giving you yours while you're there,” he informed him. “Food and drinks _off_ the bed.”

“Is this a rule?” Spencer asked curiously. Dean set everything down on the table, nudging aside books to make space.

“I'll make it one,” Dean threatened.

Spencer laughed and set aside his book. He crawled off the bed and claimed his hot chocolate. Dean sat across from him at the little table, rifling through the bags, emptying them of their contents and arranging the food on the table.

“How long was Sam up last night?” Spencer asked after Dean had taken a few bites of a breakfast burrito.

“Dunno,” Dean admitted, shrugging. “He was still working on that Persian book when I called it a night, and that was well past midnight. New books do that for him. You should have seen him when we got our new place – its library is _fantastic_. Sam didn't leave for, like, a _week_ or two. I had to pry him away with a crowbar.”

Spencer was intrigued. “You have a library? With what subjects? How big is it?”

Dean grinned at him. Between bites of his breakfast Dean described the library of the Men of Letter's secret doomsday bunker with enthusiasm. Spencer listened enviously. It sounded like the most precious gold, bound between covers in a literary form. He wanted it. He _really_ wanted it.

“You're drooling,” Dean pointed out helpfully. Spencer closed his mouth and scrubbed a hand over his chin. Finding it dry he shot Dean with a mild glare. Dean grinned at him.

“Shut up,” Spencer told him. He drained his hot chocolate, hopped down from the chair, and tossed the empty cup in the trash bin.

“But you're so fun to tease,” Dean complained with an easy grin. Spencer just clambered up onto the bed and pulled the book back onto his lap. Dean reached over and tugged Spencer's book up so he could see the cover. “I went through that one yesterday,” he said. “Nothing worth trying in it. At least nothing that would do anything for you. Try this one. Haven't looked through it yet.”

Spencer accepted the new book. It was larger than the first, taller and wider but not as thick. It was written in English – that much was true – but it was handwritten, and the writing was cramped and rife with an eclectic array of old spellings for words. Spencer found it entertaining to read. It was fun, like figuring out a puzzle.

When Sam woke, four hours later, Dean was making noises about getting lunch. A groan from the sleeping Winchester drew their attention to the second bed. Sam's hand emerged and scraped down his face as he turned over onto his back.

“Welcome back, Sammy,” Dean said.

“What time is it?” Sam asked.

“Almost noon,” Spencer told him. Sam frowned and looked over to Dean's bed, where Spencer was still sitting. It took him a moment before he remembered being woken earlier when Spencer had arrived.

“Oh. Hi there, Spencer,” he said after almost a full minute and a half of puzzled silence. “How long have you been here?”

Spencer smiled. “Four hours, approximately. Coffee? Dean was just going to go out.”

“Yeah,” Sam groaned, sitting up and swinging his feet onto the floor. “Let's go out. Get something decent.”

Dean looked offended. “Take out's decent,” he protested. Sam just rolled his eyes.

“If you wanna die at forty, sure,” he mocked. He stretched, stood, and wandered into the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind him.

Spencer looked over at Dean. “So... we're going out for lunch?”

They went out for lunch. It wasn't anywhere fancy, just a little corner diner with faded wallpaper and retouched signs, but it was pretty clean and the food smelled wonderful. The three of them claimed a booth by the window. Spencer sat between the window and Sam, with Dean sitting opposite. A waitress handed them menus. She brought Sam and Dean coffee and Spencer a small glass of juice, then she took their orders.

“So, I found one that I want to try,” Spencer declared after the waitress left with their food orders.

“Did you?” Sam asked him.

Spencer nodded. “I did. Do you think we can try it?”

Sam and Dean shared a glance. “Let us look it over first,” Dean told him. “Just to make sure it won't do anything... unpleasant.”

“Like what?”

“Like summon something,” Sam said.

“Or turn you into an animal,” Dean added.

Sam grinned at Dean. “That was hilarious.” Dean just pulled a face.

Spencer looked between the two of them. “There's a story behind that isn't there?” he asked suspiciously.

“Not really,” Dean tried to say. Sam winked at Spencer and nodded. Oh yeah, there was a story. Maybe Spencer could get Sam to tell it to him later. Spencer grinned at Sam. Dean groaned. He wasn't stupid. He could read subtext. “Great. Whatever. Do what you want.”

Sam laughed, snorted really. He tired to cover it with his hand. Dean rolled his eyes at his younger brother. Spencer reached for the salt and pepper shakers. He fiddled aimlessly with them while they waited for their food to arrive.

“So, Spencer,” Sam started, “how _did_ you get into the FBI?”

Spencer flushed. “I was recruited straight from college,” he told them. “They bent the rules to get me in when they did. I was a couple years younger than they usually allow.”

“Why'd they want you so much?” Dean asked him.

“Because I'm a genius,” Spencer said baldly. It wasn't pride, it was simple fact. “Because by twenty-two I already had three doctorates and was working on more. Gideon would introduce me as the BAU's expert on everything.” He smiled sadly. Even after all the years that had passed he still missed his friend and mentor. The betrayal by sudden disappearance still cut deep.

“Who's Gideon?” Dean asked.

Spencer shrugged. “He was my mentor. He's the one who recruited me to the FBI.”

“Oh,” Dean said. Both he and Sam could tell, mostly from the way Spencer had hunched in on himself and was barely toying with the salt and pepper shakers, that this was obviously not a topic that Spencer wanted to either discuss or have discussed.

So they changed the subject.

“So, Garth and Bess are pregnant,” Sam said.

“That's a scary thought,” commented Dean. “I mean, werewolf bit aside, whatever kids those two have are going to be tooth-rottingly sweet. You do realize that, right?”

“Yeah,” Sam grinned at Dean's discomfort. “It's all hugs and cupcakes from here on out.”

“And bloody meals,” Dean added with a slight shudder.

Sam shrugged. “If the baby takes after them--”

“Here's prayin'.”

“--then it's going to be one friendly little werepuppy,” Sam finished, ignoring Dean's interjection.

“I'm glad Garth's doing alright,” Spencer commented. “I was pretty worried when he just suddenly vanished.”

“We all were,” Dean told him. “He should have at least called to say he was alive.”

Sam agreed. “Yeah, he should have. But, you know, whatever. Now we know. And they really want us to be uncles?”

“To a werebaby. Ain't that ironic.” Dean shook his head. The waitress arrived with their orders. Sam and Spencer thanked her politely. Dean thanked her, leering appreciatively. Sam kicked his leg underneath the table. Dean scowled at him.

“Time and place, Dean,” Spencer admonished him after the waitress left.

“What? I can't look?” Dean protested.

Sam scoffed. “There's looking and then there's just plain creepy. You were bordering on the latter.”

“Was not.”

“So totally were.”

“You did make her a little uncomfortable,” Spencer felt like pointing out. “I read people for a living, so trust me on this.”

“Eat your lunch,” Dean told him, pointing his fork at him.

“You know I'm right,” Spencer said. Dean pointed the fork at him again before getting to work on his own meal. Sam shook his head, not even bothering to hide his amusement.

 

*

 

Back at the motel Spencer showed the counter curse to Sam and Dean. They read it over, both of them being better practiced in reading handwritten texts than he was so it did not take them long. They looked at each other. Sam raised an eyebrow. Dean shrugged.

“It might work,” Dean admitted.

“We'll need to go shopping for the ingredients,” Sam mused, reading it over again. “Terry's shop had most of this, I think. It doesn't call for anything outrageous.”

“Thankfully.”

Spencer felt hope blossom in his chest. “So we can do it?”

“Don't see why not,” Sam told him. “It'll take us a while to pick up the materials needed for it, but we can certainly try it.”

Spencer felt like he was vibrating out of his skin with excitement. This could be it! This could be his ticket back to being the age and size he was supposed to be!

“We should keep going through the books. See if there are any others that look like they might work. We might find something better,” Sam cautioned.

Spencer wilted. “Right. That's... a good idea.”

Sam rushed to reassure him. “We're going to try it out, don't worry. It's just safer if you've got a better understanding of what sort of things you need, especially when you're messing around with magic. It's, ah, a little more dangerous than your average science experiment.”

Dean, who had already picked his book back up rolled his eyes. “That and it’s easier to do the shopping if you don't have to run to the store six different times,” he muttered.

“That too,” Sam conceded.

“Right. Back to the books.” Spencer marked the page and continued reading.

 

*

 

Brian Briggs glanced over the paperwork one last time before signing his name. The autopsy report was straightforward, if a little confusing. The victim, Lauraine Queens, had died from one of the oddest cases of internal bleeding he had come across. Not the first one like that for Brian, but the last had been almost a decade and a half ago. Cases like these stuck in Brian's memory. They weren't easily explained and there was just something, some _feeling_ about the whole mess that was unsettling.

The FBI agents had requested the results as soon as he had them. Brian figured that either Ms Queens was tangled up in something _very_ shady, or the good agents were just as unsettled about all of this as he was. Either way, now it was no longer his problem. He would send the report over to the FBI and his part in the investigation was done.

At least this time the FBI was investigating through normal channels. Sometimes, when a case like this one cropped up, they just turned up, asked for the information, and vanished. When that happened, most medical examiners took the interest at face value. When there was something strange like this going on you did not ask too many questions about the people who were trying to fix it. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, and all that good advice. It was a fact that while not taught, was learned soon enough.

The FBI on this case seemed to be on the up and up. So far.

 

*

 

Dean winced, tugging uselessly at the strap of the sling that held his broken arm. He hated having broken bones. He hated having to wear a cast. They itched.

“You okay there, Dean?” Sam asked, looking up from the Persian book for a moment. He frowned at his brother. “Have you taken your pills?” Dean did not answer, ignoring Sam and ostensibly keeping all of his attention on the book in front of him. Sam sighed, got to his feet and looked through the room for the bottle of prescription painkillers. When he found it he chucked it at Dean's head. Dean snatched out of the air before it could make contact.

“Watch where you're throwin' things,” he snapped.

“Take your pills Dean. You're getting irritable,” Sam informed him. “It's getting on my nerves. And you're scaring Spencer.”

“Are not,” Spencer protested. It wasn't entirely true, however. Dean had been getting increasingly tetchy as his morning dose of painkillers had worn off. While Spencer was not worried for his safety or anything of that nature, it was a little alarming to watch someone he knew to be _very_ dangerous under the right circumstances to grow irritable due to pain.

Dean shot a guilty glance over at Spencer. He popped the lid off the bottle and swallowed two of the pills, washing them down with a mouthful of almost-cold coffee. “'S'not that bad,” he murmured as he chucked the pills back at his duffel bag where Sam had found them. 

“Whatever you say, man.”

“Well, I think I found another one,” Dean informed them. “'For reversing curses most personal.' Sounds promising, don't you think?”

“Sounds a bit more like something to do with STIs, not de-aging curses,” Sam pointed out.

Dean scowled at him. “Screw you, Sammy. I'm bookmarking it.”

Spencer hid a grin. Dean shoved a scrap of paper between the pages he had been reading, sneered at Sam once more for good measure, and continued reading. After a few minutes Dean started sliding off his chair. Sam kicked his shin.

“Go watch some TV,” he suggested.

“Fine. Bossy.” Dean laboriously hauled himself to his feet. When he was finally upright he wavered dangerously, but he managed to catch himself with his good arm. He shuffled over to his bed and sat down heavily. The bed jostled and Spencer hand to clutch at his book or drop it. Dean nudged him on the foot with a finger. “Budge over.” Spencer scooted over to one side of the bed, claiming a pillow for himself and leaving one for Dean. Dean sat next to Spencer, his legs stretched out in front. He dropped his head back against the headboard.

“TV's off, Sammy,” Dean complained. His voice was getting a touch of a slur to it and his eyes were unfocused and glassy. Spencer wondered how often he took heavy painkillers. It could not be very often, since these ones were hitting him hard and fast.

“Then why don't you turn it on,” Sam suggested, not looking up from the Persian book.

“No clicker.”

Spencer sighed and set his book aside. “I'll find it,” he volunteered. He slid off the bed, carefully finding the floor. Repetition was making him more confident at dropping from what seem like dangerous heights but he still found it to be dizzying.

The remote control for the old television had fallen – or been knocked – behind the desk that the TV was on. Spencer tried to reach for it, but his arms proved to be much too short. He angled his little body so he could squeeze more behind the desk but it still wasn't enough. With annoyance he admitted that he needed help.

“Sam, can you reach it for me?” he asked.

Sam looked up from the Persian book, squinting for half a moment as he tried to focus. “What?” he asked.

Spencer pointed behind the desk. “Remote. I can't reach it. Can you?”

“Yeah, sure.” It was no problem for Sam, with his long arms, to reach the remote. He gave it to Spencer, then shot Dean a mildly disapproving glare. “You could have gotten it yourself.”

Dean flipped him the bird. Spencer ignored their antics and scrambled onto the bed, remote control in hand. He handed it to Dean. He got a lopsided grin, a 'thanks man,' and his pillow back. Dean turned on the television and flipped channels until he came to a nature program about polar bears. It was distracting. Spencer found himself setting his book aside and curling up to watch alongside Dean.

Before too long they were both asleep. Sam covered them with a blanket and got back to work.

 

*

 

Spencer woke up to his phone ringing. He sat up and rolled over to reach for where he left it on his nightstand. Instead of finding his phone – or even his nightstand – he rolled off the edge of the bed and dropped painfully to the floor.

“Are you alright?” Dean asked, shuffling over on the bed so he could peer over the edge. Sam had shot to his feet and rounded the bed in a few strides. He bent down and helped Spencer sit up. The phone rang on.

“'M fine,” Spencer insisted. He was still sleep dazed but utterly embarrassed. “Can someone get that? It might be important.” Just as he said that the ringing stopped. He slumped. “Never mind. Did I fall asleep again?”

“We both did,” Dean told him sympathetically.

“Missed the polar bears,” Spencer lamented.

“It was a rerun. I caught it a couple months back.” Dean shifted so he was sitting up more comfortably.

“Still. It looked interesting. I'm fine Sam. Just a little surprised, is all. How's the translation going?”

Sam backed up and sat on the edge of his bed. He ran a hand through his hair. “Exhausting,” he admitted without shame. “My Persian's pretty iffy on a good day so I've been having to do a lot of the translating online, and that doesn't work very well when words have multiple meanings, or when the connotation is the important bit. Some of the spells look interesting, though. Nothing yet that I think would be useful for you, but a lot of things that could be useful in other situations. I'm going to have to go back to the Magic Shop and see what else I can buy from them.”

Spencer had found his phone on the table and had checked the information it showed for the last caller. “I've never learned another language. Not really. I mean, I know a fair amount of Classical Latin but that's more a byproduct from PhDs in maths and sciences. I don't think I'd be able to comprehensively read a text in Latin.”

“It takes some practice,” Sam agreed. “Who called?”

“Hotch.” Spencer tapped the screen on his phone and held it to his ear. “Sorry about that, boss. I was asleep.”

Dean turned the volume of the television down a bit. Sam stood, stretched, and moved back to the table. After a few minutes Spencer concluded his phone call. He frowned down at the cell phone as if it had offended him.

“What's wrong?” Dean asked.

“Coroner's report just came in,” Spencer told them. “Lauraine Queen died of extreme, sudden blood loss caused by multiple lacerations in her esophagus and stomach. The coroner couldn't say what could have cause is. He suggested that it might be possibly caused by swallowing a handful of razorblades, but nothing of the like was found in her. How are we going to explain this? The FBI really won't like the answer 'it was done by magic.'”

Dean, still loose limbed and lax from the drugs, turned to Sam. “I got nothin'. You?”

Sam shook his head. “Let's think about it later. What time is it anyways?” he asked around a yawn.

“Just past four,” Spencer told him, glancing down at his phone. He looked over at the quiet television. “What are you watching?”

“Some bollywood film,” Dean told him, sounding uncertain. “It's not in English. I think those two are supposed to get married but he's got a girlfriend that his parents don't like and she'd rather marry this doctor that she works with. I think. Maybe?”

Spencer watched the screen for a few minutes. “It's a musical,” he commented.

“A lot of them are,” Dean told him sagely.

“And you're still stoned,” Spencer said. Sam snorted. Dean shrugged.

“What can I say? The Docs have the good stuff. Ugh. This cast is itchy.” Dean tried to wiggle a finger underneath the cast to scratch the itch, but it was to no avail. “Sammy! Toss me a pen!”

Sam shook his head. “Nope. Doctor said not to scratch. They had to operate to set the bones. It's healing. That's why it's itchy. No scratching.”

“Dictator,” Dean accused, glaring at him.

“Baby. Suck it up.”

Spencer tuned out the bickering. He climbed back up onto the bed and found his book. It had been kicked down to the foot of the mattress, but it hadn't fallen off. He settled down again to read. Occasionally he would pause and watch the bollywood film as the actors sang and danced.

“This is surprisingly fun to watch,” Spencer commented after a particularly well done song and dance number.

“I know, right?” Dean said, agreeing.

They continued watching the movie. By the time it was over Spencer had scooted over and had tucked himself against Dean, his book still on his knees. He was careful not to jostle Dean too badly, as he leaned against the side with the broken arm. Dean, for his part, did not complain, just shifted so that they were both comfortable.

When the movie ended (happily, for everyone involved except for the shady man with a dramatic moustache who got hauled away by the police) Dean found another documentary. This one was on cathedrals. Spencer was already well versed in Gothic construction, thank you PhD in Engineering, so he set to reading again and ignored the television program.

It was almost six o'clock by the time Derek came to pick Spencer up. Dean had been making noises about going out and picking up dinner. When Derek knocked on their door Spencer was treated to the sight of both of the Winchester brothers reaching for their weapons. Sam unlocked the door, standing carefully to one side. He opened it a crack to see who it was, relaxed, uncocked his handgun (and hiding it in the back waistband of his pants), and opened the door.

“Agent Morgan,” he greeted easily. Spencer watched as Dean casually shifted his handgun underneath a pillow. “How was your day?”

Derek stared at Sam, and then glanced at Dean and Spencer as he replied. “Long. How about yours? Find anything useful?”

“Maybe. A few things,” Sam told him. “We're going to pick up a few ingredients for the spells tomorrow so we can get started on them.”

“Sounds good,” Derek said, nodded thoughtfully. He turned to Dean. “How's the arm?”

“Broken,” Dean said sarcastically.

“He's kinda high right now,” Spencer informed Derek. “Apparently he doesn't take painkillers very often.”

“They interfere with your reaction time,” Dean recited, his attention distracted by a jellyfish floating on the television screen. It was glowing pale white-blue against a murky green background. “But, then again, so do broken bones. And since pain is more debilitating without adrenaline... three cheers for painkillers!” He lifted his good arm in a brief show of triumph.

Derek found he couldn't argue. “True enough. You ready to go, Reid?”

“Yeah. I'll be back tomorrow, okay?” Spencer said to Sam and Dean.

Dean grinned at him. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

“You have a good evening, Spencer. Agent Morgan,” Sam said.


	12. Chapter Twelve

The next morning Spencer was practically vibrating with anticipation. He had not though that he would be able to sleep the night before, he was so excited. It actually surprised him when he woke up the next morning and realized that he hadn't even made it to his own bed the night before. Derek had had to carry him to bed and tuck him in. How mortifying. But, if everything (or even _anything_ ) went well today he would not have to have that experience again.

He rushed through his (new) morning routine. Then, in a fit of optimism, he packed everything he had at Derek's and got it all ready for transport back to his apartment. By the time Derek was ready to leave Spencer had his room straightened to near perfection.

Dean answered the door at the motel. He leaned against the wall and surreptitiously tucked his handgun into the back of his pants, letting the loose flannel shirt hide the handle and the telltale lump. He let the door swing open.

“Morning Agent,” he greeted Derek. “Hey Spencer. How're you this fine morning?”

Derek leaned close and frowned. “Are you _high_?” he asked.

“Painkillers, man. I'm on the good stuff, remember?” Dean explained. “Don't worry. Sammy's driving. We'll need the car seat, though.”

“Why's that?” Derek asked curiously.

“Shopping,” Dean told him with a lopsided grin.

Sam came out of the bathroom, dressed, but toweling his hair dry still. “We're trying those spells out today,” he reminded Derek.

“Hence: shopping,” Dean added. “But not just yet. Gotta get a few things together. Gotta get the car seat so you can come along,” he told Spencer, “and I wanna finish watching this program on ducks.”

“Ducks?” Spencer asked incredulously.

Dean nodded and shuffled back to the bed. “Ducks.” Only then did Derek and Spencer notice that the television was on, though the volume had been muted.

“And this is Dean on painkillers,” Sam told them.

“Dude!” Dean complained. “Ducks!”

“Is he alright?” Derek asked Sam.

Sam shrugged. “He's fine. Just very distractible. Last time he had a broken bone he ended up watching daytime Spanish novellas _all day_. Trust me, nature programs are better. At least they change up every hour.”

“I was watching Spanish novellas because we were stuck in a little crap shack in the middle of the boondocks of nowhere and the TV only had, like, five channels,” Dean complained. Sam rolled his eyes at his brother and tossed the damp towel in the direction of the bathroom. It fell in a pile just on the edge of the tiles.

“Let's get that car seat,” Sam suggested to Derek. Derek nodded and he and Sam left to transfer the car seat from Derek's truck to Sam and Dean's rental. Spencer climbed up onto the bed and settled next to Dean. If all went well, they could get rid of the hated car seat later today. The thought made Spencer smile. He even enjoyed watching the program on ducks, even though he had no real interest in ducks beyond what they could be used for. Still, it was fun.

When the car seat had been moved Derek poked his head into the room to say one last goodbye to Spencer, coupled with an admonishment to keep them all posted on how the counter-cursing went. Spencer promised cheerfully.

Sam busied himself about the room, scratching notes on a scrap of paper, tossing clothing in the direction of the duffel bags, sweeping trash into the bin. By the time the program on ducks was done Sam was ready to go. He prodded Dean into action and soon they were in the car, on their way to the Magic Shop.

 

*

 

“The brothers Winchester!” exclaimed Terry Wrede when he caught sight of his current customers. “Well, were the books useful?”

Sam smiled. “They have some interesting spells in them,” he admitted. “We're going to try them out today, if we can get the ingredients. Do you have any of these?” He passed his list over for Terry to peruse.

While Sam conferred with the shopkeeper, Spencer wandered the shop, carefully examining the collection of jars and their contents. He picked up one, a quart-sized mason jar that was labeled _'Eye of Newt'_ in blue pen on a plain sticker label. Somehow the sheer banality of the labeling made the shop at the same time both more real and utterly fantastic. Spencer replaced the jar of newts' eyes. He moved on to the books, the ones closer to the floor, reading the spines with delight.

Dean, feeling mellow and generally pleased with the world for the moment, leaned against the counter and watched Spencer poke about. He ignored Sam and Terry. Terry had most of what they were looking for but admitted that they would need to go elsewhere for one or two of the ingredients. It took almost a full five minutes before he noticed that Sam and Dean hadn't come in alone.

“Who's this?” Terry asked when he finally noticed Spencer, who had settled himself on the floor with one of the lore books.

“This is Spencer,” Dean introduced. Spencer looked up and smiled nervously.

Terry smiled at little Spencer. “Nice to meet you, Spencer. My name's Terry. How old are you?”

“About the same age as Sam and Dean,” Spencer said evenly. Terry blinked. His expression cleared as he understood.

“Ah. You would be the friend that was cursed, then. I'm very sorry about that.” Terry scratched his graying hair. “I can only imagine how it is for you right now.”

“It's frustrating,” Spencer concurred.

“Well, hopefully one of those counter curses will work for you and you'll be back to normal,” Terry said positively.

Spencer nodded. “Hopefully.”

Terry busied himself fetching the ingredients on Sam's list, measuring and packaging behind the counter. Dean eventually joined Spencer on the floor, flipping through the lore books and pointing out the more interesting facts to Spencer. He would point to the page and explain in bare detail the jobs that he and Sam, or he and his dad, or just he himself had worked that concerned those monsters. Spencer listened, rapt, as Dean recounted his experiences.

“You're really good at explaining things,” he pointed out.

Dean shrugged. “Someone had to teach Sammy when we were growin' up,” he said.

“What about your dad?”

“He was gone a lot. Hunts, you know.” Dean shifted uncomfortably. He didn't particularly like talking about how he and Sam grew up. Mostly because he respected his father – or at least he respected the work his father did – even if he had not been the best of caregivers for two young boys who had just lost their mother.

“So you raised Sam by yourself,” Spencer inferred. He had already gathered as much from his research into their past. “At least you had each other.” That got him a sideways glance from Dean. Spencer shifted uncomfortably. “My mom... is very ill. I had to take care of her, growing up.”

“I'm sorry,” Dean told him honestly.

“Don't be. There's nothing for it. She's in good hands right now, and I think she's happy, for the most part. At least, that's what the doctors tell me...” Spencer trailed off guiltily. She was, after all, admitted in a mental insinuation all of the way across the continent. It was not like Spencer was able to just pop in for regular visits. He did write every day, but that did little to ameliorate his overall feeling of guilt for putting her there in the first place.

“Do they know what's wrong?” Dean asked out of morbid curiosity.

Spencer nodded but said “I don't want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” Dean told him. They went back to their books. The easy mood was only just a little rattled. It settled after a few minutes when Dean pointed out another monster to Spencer and explained how to spot it, and then how to kill it.

Sam interrupted them about twenty minutes later, a large paper bag cradled in the crook of one arm. “Ready to go?” he asked them.

“Spencer here wants some books, Sammy,” Dean commented.

“Not right now,” Sam told them. “We have one more stop to make, then we should be ready for business. If all goes well, you can come back here on your own and get the books yourself.”

The prospect cheered Spencer. He put the books he and Dean had been flipping through back on their shelves. Then he popped sprightly to his feet. “Well, let's get going then!”

Dean stood up with only a minimum of difficulty owing to his broken arm. When he had gained his footing he waved to Terry, and wobbled a little. Sam steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. When Dean was confident in his balance he shrugged off Sam's hand. They bid Terry goodbye and wished him a good day.

Terry had told them which shops that would be most likely to carry the ingredients he did not have in stock. Sam checked their addresses on his laptop before he headed for the nearest shop. Dean ended up napping on the drive, unintentionally, his face pressed comically against the window. Spencer and Sam chatted about nothing important. The drive seemed to take forever to Spencer's dismay. He was more than primed and ready to be and adult again. Waiting was torment.

The first shop, run by a scarred, tough-looking East Indian woman named Priya Michaels who had retired from the life of a hunter after almost getting gutted on a job, only had one of the ingredients they were missing from their list. She packaged it up for them and they left the shop within five minutes of entering. Spencer had to be pulled away from a jumbled display of charms he only vaguely recognized from his bouts of midnight internet research – a last resort, for when the libraries were closed. He did, after all, much prefer his knowledge to be book-bound rather than floating around on some electronic device. He and Penelope disagreed on that topic frequently, largely whenever she has to print out hard copies for him of case files and suspect information when doing debriefings. Spencer did not care. It was a matter of preference. He read better off of paper.

Neither of the next two shops had the last ingredient on Sam's master list. The third, though, did happen to carry it, but it was hideously expensive. Spencer almost choked when he caught a glimpse of the quoted price. Sam paid it, though, and accepted his wrapped purchase with a quick smile.

They stopped and picked up lunch on their way back to the motel. They ate in the car. Spencer was almost too excited to keep anything down. Only the most rational part of his brain could convince him to eat as much as he could. Who knew, after all, how much energy he would need for all the magic they had planned on trying. He certainly did not. Magic was not one of his areas of specialty. Sciences, sure. Philosophy, got that PhD. Math, of course! But magic was still uncharted territory for Doctor Spencer Reid.

Spencer had the buckles on his car seat undone moments after they turned into the motel parking lot. He sprung out the moment Sam had parked. Dean laughed at him as he got out. Sam popped the trunk lid open, tossed Dean the key to the motel, and collected the bags from the back. Dean let them into the room. Sam dumped the bags onto Dean's bed and started sorting. Spencer crawled up and assisted, recalling what was needed for each spell in perfect detail. Dean made himself useful by moving the books off of the table, sorting them into two piles: one with all the books with spells that they were going to try, the other all of the books that had nothing that they thought might apply.

“Ready?” Sam asked Spencer, reaching for the first book.

“More than,” Spencer told him grimly. “Let's do this.”

Sam and Dean poured over the first spell. Dean fetched the brass bowl that was needed and Sam drew his knife. Spencer helped sort of the herbs and tokens.

“This is the simplest one,” Sam cautioned. “I don't think there'll be any problems casting it.”

“Let's do it!” Spencer exclaimed in excitement.

Smiling at the childish outburst Sam got to work. He measured and crushed and mixed. Things were mixed with an appearance of carelessness in the brass bowl. Spencer knew from reading the spell that there really was no need for exactness for this particular spell. Until the final ingredient was added it was just a mishmash of dried plants. When he was ready to add the last ingredient Sam looked over at Spencer, frowning.

“Do you want to do it, or do you want me or Dean to?” he asked.

Spencer contemplated the knife that Sam held hilt-first out to him. It looked awfully big and obsessively sharp. Even as an adult he hesitated before deliberate self harm (his brief stint of addiction to Dilaudid not being counted, since that was needles not knives). He hesitated. “Could you?” he asked, grimacing.

“Uh, yeah,” Sam told him. He flipped the knife so he was holding the handle. Spencer pushed his sleeve up past his elbow and held it out. Sam gently took Spencer's forearm in his larger hand. He moved the knife closer, and then paused. Spencer looked up, frowning.

“What?” he demanded.

“Nothing,” Sam denied. “It's just... I don't usually do this sort of thing to kids. It's kinda weird, you know.”

Dean scoffed. “I think we'd all be worried about you if you found it easy to cut up a little kid, Sammy,” he told his younger brother. Spencer had to nod. That would have been worrying.

“Don't worry about me,” Spencer insisted. He pushed his forearm closer. “Just get it over with. The anticipation is killing me.”

Sam steeled himself and quickly dragged the blade across the skin of Spencer's forearm, careful to keep the cut shallow. He held the arm over the brass bowl. Spencer's phone chirped with a text. Spencer ignored it in favour of watching his blood drip into the bowl, landing on the mess Sam had created. When there was enough blood spilled Dean took Spencer's arm and pressed a gauze pad to the cut.

After Dean had loosely taken care of Spencer's wound – they might need more blood later, if this spell did not work – Sam struck a match. Before the initial sulphur flare of fire could die he dropped it into the bowl, igniting the contents as if they were black powder. Spencer jerked back, not expecting that violent of a reaction. He watched the fire in the bowl burn itself out.

Nothing happened.

“What now?” he asked, feeling disappointed.

“Now we wait,” Sam said, frowning a little at the bowl. “Some spells don't work immediately.”

“Oh.” Spencer held his wounded arm to his chest. “So what do we do while we wait?”

Dean had turned the television on. “There's a program on cannibalism on,” he suggested. Spencer shuddered.

“No thanks. Seen one too many cannibals over the course of my career. Doubt they have anything I don't already know. Anything else on?” he found his phone and crawled up onto the bed beside Dean.

“Dr Sexy, M.D.?” Dean suggested.

“No!” Sam exclaimed.

Dean pouted but moved on. Eventually they settled on a movie. They had missed the first twenty minutes of it, but, since Dean had seen it before, he was able to catch Spencer up on what had been missed. Spencer checked his phone for messages. There was one from JJ.

_PG found some interesting books on the internet. You might want to read them. She thinks they're about D &SW._

Spencer frowned at the message. Then another one came in, this time from Rossi.

_JJ and I are on your way. ETA 10 mins. You at the motel yet?_

He typed back: _Here now. Tried out the first spell. Waiting for results now. See you soon._

“We're going to have company,” he informed Sam and Dean. They tensed. “JJ and Rossi are on their way. Probably to just check up.”

“Oh. Alright then,” Dean sighed. He and Sam relaxed, assured that there was not any unforeseen incoming trouble. Spencer settled down and texted Penelope.

 _What are these books you found?_ he asked. He got a web address in return. Curious, he opened up the website.

“Do either of you know a 'Carver Edlund?'” he asked.

Both Sam and Dean cursed, loud and soft. Dean twisted to glare at Spencer. “Where did you hear that name?” he demanded. Spencer held up his phone. Dean snatched it up with is good hand and read what was on the screen. Sam moved so he could see as well.

“Huh,” said Sam. “Charlie wasn't kidding when she said they were on the internet.”

“So they're really about you two?” Spencer asked for confirmation.

“I'm gonna kill Chuck,” Sam swore, spinning away.

“Who's Chuck?”

“He's the douche that wrote those books,” Dean explained bitterly, handing the phone back.

Spencer went back to reading. “Seems like he had a lot of information to write from. Either that or a really good imagination. Can't seem to write very well, though.”

“Chuck was a prophet,” Sam told him. “Specifically, he was _our_ prophet. Apparently it was his job to chronicle the Winchester Gospels. At least, according to Cas... and a couple other angels. He didn't know he was writing about real people until we tracked him down. By then he already had the whole series out and more that hadn't managed to get published.”

“I blame him for so much trouble,” Dean muttered.

“Becky,” Sam agreed, shuddering.

Spencer was confused. “Who's Becky?”

“Evil personified,” Sam told him seriously. “The worst sort of monster imaginable.”

“She was Sammy's number one fangirl,” Dean finished.

“Evil,” Sam stressed.

Spencer was a little confused. “Was she a monster?” he asked.

Deans hook his head. “No, she was one hundred per cent human. Just a little _too_ in love with Sammy here, if you know what I mean.”

“I can imagine,” Spencer said slowly. And he could. He had studied and tracked down enough stalkers to have a very good idea what could have happened. Meave's stalker was still knife-sharp in his memory. He felt a chill run through him at the thought and had to ask, “Violent?”

Sam shook his head. “Underhanded and manipulative, mostly. It's cool now, though. We haven't seen her in years.”

“She's still writing skeevy fanfiction about us, I bet,” Dean complained. “The internet, man. It's a scary place!”

Spencer didn't know whether he should try to smile or not. Stalkers were a sore subject for him. Instead he changed the subject. “Do I look older yet?”

Both Dean and Sam studied him. They shook their heads. Spencer drooped.

There was a knock at the door. Sam answered it, a hand on his gun. When it turned out to be only JJ and Rossi – who was looking almost as bruised as Dean was from their accident – he cheerfully welcomed them in.

“Are you always armed?” Rossi asked Sam as he walked by. Sam was startled.

“How could you tell?” he asked.

Rossi just raised an eyebrow. “Son, when you've been working as long as I have, you notice things.”

“Well,” Sam said, “to answer your question, no, we're not always armed, just most of the time. Right now, we're with Spencer, who we already know has witches after him. Better safe than sorry.”

“Are those firearms legal?”

Dean snorted. “Of course they're not. We're _dead_ , remember?”

Rossi had to give them that. “How're you doing, kiddo?” he asked Spencer.

“The first spell doesn't seem to be working,” Spencer told him and JJ with a regretful sigh.

“What happened to your arm?” JJ asked, spotting the taped gauze.

Spencer glanced down at it and shrugged. “The spell needed blood as an active ingredient. Don't glare at them, JJ. I had to bully them into cutting me. It's not like they got any pleasure from the act.”

“Ew,” Dean muttered. “What kind of people _do_ that? _Sick_.”

Everyone ignored him.

“How long ago did you try the spell?” Rossi asked curiously.

Sam checked the time. “About fifteen minutes now. We're giving it another fifteen since sometimes the effects are a bit delayed. It shouldn't take more than half an hour, though, to be able to tell if it's working.”

“Why blood?” JJ asked.

“It’s a catalyst, creates the magic, and it tailors it,” Sam explained. “Otherwise it's just a bunch of herbs. The blood gives the spell a direction to work, links the magic, as it were, to the person rather than just letting it,” he waved a hand in the air, “waft away.”

Dean snorted. “Waft,” he said to himself, amused.

“Don't mind Dean,” Spencer told JJ and Rossi. “He's on painkillers.”

“The good stuff,” Dean agreed, nodding his head with a grin.

“Apparently, he doesn't usually take drugs,” Spencer continued. “They're hitting him pretty hard. It's amusing.”

Dean poked Spencer in the side. Spencer yelped and squirmed away. He stuck his tongue out at the hunter once he was at what he deemed a safe distance. Dean rolled his eyes and turned back to the movie.

“So, have there been any new developments?” Sam asked. He offered Rossi one of the chairs, which Rossi accepted. JJ moved around Dean's bed to sit on the edge of Sam's. Spencer cuddled up beside her.

“We've proof that Lauraine Queens and Rodger Hamilton were having an affair,” Rossi told him. “Rodger had been talking to his lawyer about getting a divorce.”

“Did Mrs. Hamilton know about this?” Spencer asked.

Rossi smiled at him. “That's the question, now isn't it. As near as we can tell, no, she didn't know that her husband wanted to divorce her. On the other hand, there is the magic to consider... and the fact that she's not a stupid woman. She would have noticed something, even if it was only about the affair.”

“Perhaps,” Spencer agreed cautiously. He stretched his arms out in front of himself and examined his hands. “Do I look bigger yet?”

“No,” Dean informed him after a moment.

“Sorry,” Sam added.

Spencer sighed heavily. “Has it been half an hour?”

“Just five more minutes,” Sam told him.

Spencer groaned and slouched into JJ. JJ looped an arm around his shoulders and hugged him close. She smiled down at her friend. “Patience,” she counseled.

“I don't wanna be patient. I want to be _myself_ again,” Spencer complained.

“Five minutes. Then we'll try out the next spell,” Sam said.

“How many do you have to try?” Rossi asked, peering at the piles of books.

“Only six,” Sam told him. He picked up one books and flipped it open. “This is the one we just tried. It's about as basic as you can get, from what we know. It’s a basic cleansing. Apparently, it's not enough to counter this whammy.”

“Shame,” Rossi commented, reading over the spell.

The movie on the television cut to commercial. “Time!” Dean called. He turned off the television and rolled off the bed, springing to his feet in a drunkenly graceful maneuver that impressed JJ and Rossi. Sam just picked up the next book. He had already cleaned out the brass bowl just in case they needed to use it again. They did.

Dean wiped the bowl down once more with a teeshirt he picked up from the floor. He didn't know if it was his or if it was Sam's. It didn't matter. It had to get washed soon anyways. He set the bowl back on the table and, reading over Sam's shoulder, helped sort the herbs. This one involved a brief chant in Latin as well as a few slightly more exotic ingredients than had been needed for the last. Spencer and JJ moved closer so they could see what was going on.

“This one needs blood too,” Spencer commented as Sam started putting things in the bowl. He peeled off the tape on his arm and studied the cut. “You're going to have to cut me again. This was too shallow to allow for continuous bleeding.”

“Sorry,” Sam said. He looked guilty and a little sick.

Spencer just shrugged. “Don't worry about it.”

Dean grabbed the knife from where Sam had left it on the table. He pulled out a lighter and held the blade over the flame until he was satisfied that it was sterile. “I hope this works,” he muttered as Spencer offered up his arm once more. “Cuttin' kids is just plain _wrong_.”

“Not really a kid,” Spencer reminded him.

“Doesn't matter,” Dean said. “You look like a kid. Sorry about this.” He pressed the blade into Spencer's flesh, drawing blood.

Sam recited the Latin phrase as Spencer's blood dripped into the bowl. Spencer jerked his arm back as Sam struck another match. Like before, the contents of the bowl burst into energetic flames that died away to a smoulder almost immediately. Dean set the knife aside and set about cleaning and bandaging Spencer's arm again.

“Half hour,” Dean announced. He finished taping a fresh pad of gauze over the two cuts. “How do they feel?”

“Painful,” Spencer admitted, “but I've had worse.”

Dean frowned. “Do you want anything for it? We got Tylenol. Can kids take Tylenol?”

“Not adult doses,” JJ informed him.

“I'll be fine,” Spencer insisted. “Don't worry about it.”

“You sure?” Dean asked him.

“Yeah.” Spencer bit his lips and examined his hands.

JJ smiled sympathetically and tousled his hair. “No change yet.”

Spencer nodded, disappointed but unsurprised. “Right. Well, back to waiting, I guess.”

“What d you want to do while we wait?” Sam asked as he tidied up, getting things prepared for the next spell on their list.

“Anyone here play cards?” Dean asked. He stooped down and fished through his duffel bag for a deck of playing cards.

JJ and Rossi groaned. “You don't want to play against Spencer,” Rossi cautioned.

“Why not?”

“Because you'll loose,” JJ told him frankly.

“Spencer counts cards,” Rossi explained.

Spencer protested. “I don't mean to!”

“Sure you don't, Sweetie,” JJ said, her expression indulgent and deeply amused.

“Well,” Dean said, popping up with a deco of cards in hand, “this I have to see. Poker?”

Spencer grinned. No one played poker with him anymore. Even only playing for M&Ms he would clean everyone out. He scrambled up onto Dean's bed. Only Sam and Dean wanted to play, JJ and Rossi bowing out with 'experience' as their excuse. No matter. Dean dealt three hands and the game was on. “What are we playing for?” he asked with an air of innocence.

Sam looked around. He and Dean turned out their pockets. Together they had $15.78 and two sticks of chewing gum. Amused, and looking forward to watching the Winchesters loose to a five year old, Rossi emptied his pockets and wallet of change, adding it to the pot. JJ did likewise. Sam sifted through the collection and divided it evenly amongst the three of them.

The game was a slaughter. Spencer collected his winnings with a wide grin and explained that he'd been banned from most of the casinos in Vegas at a ridiculously young age because he counted cards like it was as simple and automatic as breathing.

“Man, we have got to take you out with us when we're lookin' for cash,” Dean breathed, utterly impressed. “No one would ever see you coming.”

“Dean,” Sam said, rolling his eyes.

“What? They wouldn't!” Dean protested.

“They also wouldn't allow a kid into a bar,” Sam pointed out. “At least, not without raising quite a few eyebrows.”

“That's true enough,” Rossi said. “Is that how you support yourselves?”

Sam and Dean shared a brief glance. Sam shrugged. “It's more honest than some other ways,” he said.

“Card games?” JJ asked.

“And pool,” added Dean helpfully. “I fix cars sometimes, too. And Sammy here's got a business online translating texts for undergrads and whatnot.”

“You do?” JJ asked, surprised.

Sam shrugged. “We're pretty busy, so I don't get that much done.”

“Still, I'm impressed. You learn any of that when you went to collage?” she asked.

“No,” Sam shook his head. “I was pre-law. This is... mostly self taught.”

“Mostly?”

“A friend of ours... Bobby. He used to do the translations. I'd work with him,” Sam told her. He scratched the back of his neck self consciously.

“It's been half an hour,” Dean interrupted. Spencer, Rossi, and JJ did not miss the shared looks of still raw pain between the Winchesters. They could quite easily infer that Bobby was no longer counted among the living. They did not pursue the topic.

“No change,” Sam said after an examination of Spencer.

Dean cussed softly. “Guess it's the next spell on the list now.”

Sam double checked the book. “This one's going to be messy,” he commented.

“Messy how?” Rossi asked.

“I'm going to have to paint some sigils on Spencer,” Sam explained. “If they fade – according to this text – that means that the spell will work and _is_ working. If they don't...” he shrugged, leaving the rest unsaid. It did not need to be said. Anticipation and disappointment were the choice emotions for the day. No words were needed to aid either.

The dyes needed had been bought pre-crushed. All that was needed was for a little water for hydration ad they were good to go. Spencer stood on a chair, his arms held out as Sam and Dean worked painting his face, arms, chest, and back with the bizarre markings.

“I feel like a child's canvas,” Spencer commented as he studied the sigils Dean had painted on his left arm.

“Hey,” Dean protested mildly.

“Well, you have to admit, Dean, that we're not exactly Rembrandt,” Sam pointed out.

“Children,” JJ teased. Rossi covered an indulgent smile with one hand. Spencer grinned over at them, looking quite ridiculous in only his pants and paint.

“So we should be able to tell right away if this spell works, right?” he asked Sam for confirmation.

Sam nodded absently, tracing a blue line over his shoulder and down his clavicle. “Within a few minutes, I guess. The book says that it's a fairly fast reaction.”

“Good.” Spencer was pleased. He was impatient. He had been suffering under the curse as a child for what he felt was quite long enough, thank you very much. He was almost at the point where he would make a deal with the devil himself to get back to normal.

Okay, he probably would not do that.

No. He d _efinitely_ would not do anything like that. He liked his soul where it currently resided. And he did not really want to take a chance on being damned to Hell for one little wish, even if he felt it was immensely important. No, there was always another way.

“Done,” Dean announced. Spencer looked down at himself. He was covered in painted runes and symbols. It was odd. It felt a little like he was dressing up for a cosplay contest for ComiCon. Although, he would never cosplay anything with as little clothes as he was wearing at the moment. He knew very well what a skinny little twig he was, all height (not at the moment, though) and nothing much else to recommend him. Donna Noble's description of David Tennant's Doctor seemed to suit him very well: he was a skinny streak of nothing.

Not at the moment, however. Right now he was just tiny little bit of nothing.

“Alright then,” Sam said, stepping back. He held the spellbook in one hand and frowned in concentration as he read the words of the spell aloud. Everyone in the motel room held their breath and watched carefully for any hint that the spell was working.

Sam finished reading.

Spencer stared hard at the paint on his skin. He willed it to fade, to do _something_ to indicate the spell was working. It remained stubbornly mundane.

“Give it a couple minutes,” Sam said pacifically.

When ten minutes passed and nothing changed Spencer wilted fully into the chair. The disappointment was becoming a crushing weight pressing down on him. He clung to the hope that one of the other spells would work, but hope was fading fast.

“Nothing,” Dean declared, sounding almost as disappointed as Spencer felt at the declaration.

“You can use the shower, if you want,” Sam said. He dropped onto the edge of Dean's bed with a muttered curse. “Sorry. We'll keep trying. I promise.”

Spencer nodded and, not looking at his friends, headed for the bathroom. It was time to wash the proof of his disappointment off and prepare himself for more magical experiments.

 

*

 

Amanda got back to the totaled Impala after being sidetracked by another case that needed to be processed. The Impala was much less urgent, so it got second place against anything else that came across her metaphorical desk. That was unfortunate, since she was _really_ enjoying going through the treasure trove tucked away in the spacious trunk. The excessive amount of rock salt still confused her, as did the bottles of water that were, all of them, marked with a cross. But it was not her job to know everything, so Amanda allowed her focus to move on to the other items, namely the guns.

Oh, the guns. There were handguns, sawed off shotguns, even a vintage Colt revolver. She was very impressed with that specimen of firearm history. There was also plenty of ammunition for the whole lot. A curious thing she noted when checking the shotgun shells was that they were filled with rock salt rather than shot.

Apparently the shotguns were not used to _kill_. The rock salt was probably to inflict pain. Amanda shuddered a little, shoved her distaste to the back of her mind, and got back to work. She worked for the FBI. Like the CSU working with police there were a lot of items used for terrible deeds that she had to handle. There was no point getting squeamish over any of them.

 

*

 

Neither JJ nor Rossi could spend the entire day at the motel watching Sam and Dean try to cast counter curses on Spencer. After Spencer had emerged from the shower, towel-dried and dressed once more, they had wished him luck and headed back to the office. While disappointed, Spencer had not expected them to be able to stay as long as they had. He gave JJ a hug and shook Rossi's hand as they left. When the door closed behind them Spencer slunk back up onto the edge of Dean's bed.

“Another spell now?” he asked. He sounded defeated, even to his on ears.

“Do you want to try again now?” Sam asked him. “Or do you want to wait a while? We can go out, you know, go to the park or something. Take some time off.”

Spencer's first thought was to press forward, continue with the spellcasting. He opened his mouth to say so but no words made it past his throat. He closed his mouth and grimaced. Dean patted him on the shoulder.

“Come on,” he said gently. “Let's get outta here for a while. I'm starting to feel claustrophobic.” Spencer nodded, grateful that the decision was taken out of his hands, that Dean had made the excuse for him. He found his socks and shoes and put them on. Sam and Dean found their wallets and keys. Spencer tucked his phone into the back of his pants where he had been carrying it since he got cursed.

“Is there a park nearby?” he asked as Sam locked the door behind them.

“Dunno,” Dean said. “We can find one, if you want.”

Spencer nodded silently. He had had fun at that park the other day. It had been... freeing, he realized with a bit of a shock. None of the children at that park had known he was not a child also. There were no expectations for him to act as he did as an adult. All the energy and spontaneity that he found he was holding back – without even thinking about it – while around the people who knew him seemed to burst forth in only somewhat restrained abandon.

Sam checked his phone for a nearby park. They ended up deciding to go to one a little further away, as it would be in a better part of town. That meant that they would have to drive. Spencer resigned himself to the hated car seat once again.

There were only a handful of children playing at the park that they had picked. Dean stretched when he got out of the car, his good arm reaching high above his head. Spencer hesitated on joining the children at play. He bit his lower lip and shifted his weight from foot to foot. Dean noticed his behavior and snorted.

“If you wanna go play, go play,” he told him. “I'm not gonna judge you. You, Sammy?”

“Nope. If we had a Frisbee or something like that, I'd join,” Sam admitted freely. Spencer felt a burst of gratefulness towards the brothers. He darted off, running towards the play equipment.

Dean found a hot dog vendor and bought himself something to eat. The pills he was on, he found, made him more hungry than usual. Sam settled on a bench with an unobstructed view of the playground. Dean joined him, hot dog already half eaten.

“Man, what do you have on that?” Sam asked, sniffing the air dubiously. Dean just grinned and shoved the last bite into his mouth. Sam shook his head once and turned his attention to the park. Spencer was hesitating on the sidelines, watching the children. No, _studying_ them would be closer to the truth.

“What's wrong with him?” Dean asked softly, noticing the behaviour.

“I think he's trying to figure out how to join in,” Sam murmured.

Spencer moved then, clamoring up to the top of the slide. He helped a smaller child get set at the top and then watched the little girl slide down into the waiting and effusive arms of a woman who looked to be her mother. Spencer watched for only a moment before diving down the slide himself. When he reached the end he sprung to his feet and dashed back onto the play castle.

“Looks like he's having fun,” Dean commented. “Good. He was starting to look too stressed for a kid his age.”

“He's supposed to be my age, you know,” Sam pointed out.

“But he's not right now, now is he?”

Sam watched Spencer interact with the children. Other than momentary hesitations, which could be attributed to simple shyness rather than any more strange reasons, he looked and acted much like any of the other children playing. “He's an adorable kid, don't you think?”

“Don't let him hear you say that.”

“Of course not!”

For the next hour Sam and Dean watched on as Spencer wore himself out physically. He paused long enough to give Dean his phone so it would not get lost, but went right back once it changed hands. That was the only time he approached them. Every once in a while he would glance over, but no more than that. At last Spencer traipsed back to their bench and flopped down between them.

“Have fun?” Dean asked.

“A bit,” Spencer admitted.

“Feeling better?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Ready to try again?”

Spencer nodded. He held his arms out to Sam. Sam picked him up and Spencer let himself sag a little into the strong arms. “I'm tired,” he muttered into Sam's shoulder.

“I can bet,” Sam said. He tossed Dean the car keys. Spencer was asleep before they had him buckled into his car seat.

“Nap time,” said Dean when Sam looked concerned. “All those girlfriends and you never dated anyone with kids? Everyone knows that little kids need to take naps. So much for that college education.” Sam pulled a face at him and reclaimed the keys.

“Come on, let's go.”

They climbed into the front of the car. As Sam started the engine Dean said, “Let's stop and pick something up for dinner.”

 

*

 

Spencer had six text messages when he woke later. Someone had tucked him into Sam's bed. Dean was stretched out over the top of his bed, staring at the television with rapt attention. By the look of him he had recently taken his pills. Sam was witting sideways to the table, his feet propped up on Dean's bed as he tapped away at his laptop.

“Did I fall asleep again?” he asked.

“Not for too long,” Dean assured him. He turned from the television screen and graced Spencer with an open smile. “Welcome back to the land of the living. Hungry? We got Chinese.”

Stretching, Spencer nodded. “Do you have a fork?”

“At the table.”

Sam pushed a couple of cartons of Chinese takeout toward the opposite side of the table along with a small stack of paper napkins and a plastic fork. Spencer climbed up onto the free chair. He checked the cartons, setting one aside since he didn't like how it smelled.

“How come you get to eat on the bed?” he asked Dean, who was emptying a carton of noodles.

“My bed,” was Dean's excuse. Spencer rolled his eyes and, folding his small fingers around the plastic fork, dug into his own carton of noodles.

When he had gotten most of the noodles eaten, checked his messages and returned the ones that he felt needed attention, Spencer looked up and frowned. “We don't have that much time before Derek's supposed to arrive to pick me up,” he commented.

“Time enough for at least two more tries,” Sam said. “All three, if he doesn't mind waiting.”

Spencer swallowed. “Do you think any of them will work?” he asked, his voice small.

“I do,” Sam said earnestly. “It's a curse, after all. A counter curse _should_ work to neutralize it. We just need to find the right one.”

That made sense. Spencer could relate to it, with his background in science the parallel was an easy one to draw. “Alright,” he said, digging his fork around in the container of noodles, chasing the last remnants. “When can we get back to it?”

“Whenever you're ready,” Sam told him.

“Now?”

Sam set aside his laptop. “Sure. You done eating?” Spencer nodded, tipping the last noodles into his mouth and chewing them quickly. “Alright then. Let's get back to it.”

The next spell involved chanting, a burning feather, incense, and a rose quarts crystal that had to rest on Spencer's chest as he lay prone on the bed. Dean sat out for the proceedings. His medication made him much too mellow to be of any great use for tasks that need to have attention paid to them.

“None of these counter curses demand much involvement from the cursed,” Spencer commented after Sam had finished chanting.

“Course not,” Dean said. “'S probably because cursed people might not be _able_ to be involved.”

“Sleeping beauty,” Sam offered. “Frog prince. Those types of things.”

Spencer blinked, surprised. “Those actually happen?” he asked.

Sam shrugged. “They're not common. I've only heard of those kinds of curses being used a couple times. We've never had to deal with any of them.”

“Did have one case where people were being killed like in fairy tales,” Dean commented easily, his attention on an episode of Wheel of Fortune. “Wasn't a curse, though.”

“What was it?”

“Snow white,” Dean told him with an amused grin.

Spencer frowned. “Really?”

“Well, in a way,” Sam vouched. “She'd been poisoned by her stepmother, but she wasn't killed. Her spirit was wandering, trying to express what had happened to her in the only way she could. Fairy tales were what she used since her father would read them to her whenever he could.”

“Did she wake up?”

“Ah, no,” Sam said, shaking his head sadly. “She was already dead. The only thing that was keeping her here was the need to tell her father the truth about what had happened to her. Once her father knew the truth about what his wife had done to her, her job was done and she could move on to the afterlife.”

Spencer thought that was a very sad thing and said so. “It's not the worst than can happen in life,” Dean said prosaically. They had seen worse, they had _experienced_ worse.

“It's still a sad thing when it does happen,” Spencer said firmly.

“Not saying it's not,” Dean backtracked. “Just that there are worse things out there.”

Spencer shook his head. “Everyone's experiences differ. What is unbearable for one might be merely unpleasant for another,” he said. “Obviously the betrayal of her stepmother was painful enough to tether her spirit to this world after she should have died. Who can say how keenly it hurt her.”

Dean stared at him for a very long minute. Spencer stared back. “You know, it's really weird hearing a four year old talk like that,” Dean commented.

“Not really four,” Spencer pointed out with a frown.

“I know, I know.” Dean chucked an empty carton across the room. It landed directly in the trash bin. He whooped, throwing up his good arm in triumph. “Jeopardy's coming on next. Wanna watch it with me?”

Spencer decided that he might as well and climbed up next to Dean, claiming one of the pillows for himself. “Don't mind me if I know all the answers,” he warned.

“Feel free,” Dean told him.

They watched Jeopardy, which was an older episode that Spencer had in fact seen before. Spencer did know all of the answers to the clues. He tried to wait saying the answer until after the entirety of the clue had been read, but once or twice he did not manage to exercise patience. Dean found it hilarious and was obviously impressed with Spencer's knowledge of a wide range of random facts. Sam watched them, utterly amused. He was keeping a weather eye on Spencer for any sign that the curse was broken, but Spencer's show of beating all of the contestants to answering was very entertaining. As Dean had pointed out, it was really strange to hear fully formed adult thoughts, words, and facts, come from the mouth of a child.

Not as strange as a giant talking teddy bear, though. That one was still high up on Sam's list of just plain odd.

Sam let them finish the show, since Spencer looked like he was really enjoying showing off. After the winner had been announced and the credits were rolling Sam picked up the book with the next spell. “Who's ready for the next try?” he asked, trying to sound positive. The continuous failures were grinding down his hope that they would be able to fix Spencer. Still, he knew he had to at least appear positive for Spencer.

This spell took place in the bathtub. Spencer had to be washed (or wash himself, since he was conscious and able) with water that had a number of purifying herbs floating around in it. Then he had to drink a tea that smelled like tar, pine, and roses and tasted like the back end of a sheep. He gagged, trying to get it down. Having had his second bath of the day Spencer wondered if he could not have simply done this ritual cleansing before. He asked Sam.

“Probably not,” Sam told him. “We don't know how the magic would have interacted if you had. Better safe than sorry.”

“You're probably right,” Spencer had to admit. “Better to avoid cross contamination, after all. Do you think maybe this one's working?” he asked.

“Sorry, not yet,” Dean told him. Spencer sighed, disappointed. He ran his hands through his wet hair, and then wiped the excess water on the side of his pants leg. Dean dropped a towel on his head. Spencer rubbed it vigorously over his hair, trying to get rid of the worst of the dripping moisture that was soaking into the collar of his shirt. He grimaced. That was going to get cold quickly. As a precaution he burrowed into a corner of the blankets on Dean's bed while Dean found an episode of _Game of Thrones_.

Sam protested. “We haven't gotten that far in the series yet, Dean! Find something else.”

Dean taunted Sam, refusing to change the channel for almost five minutes, laughing at Sam's complaints. Finally he settled on an old episode of _Wormhole X-treme_ , happy to mock the horrible sci-fi show and its terribly portrayed characters. Spencer joined in, comparing it unfavourably to other, higher quality, science fiction shows throughout television history. He was surprised at how well Dean kept up with his rant, adding his own opinion on the points that Spencer made and throwing in references and quotes of his own to the mix. Spencer was delighted. It almost took his mind off the fact that spell number five was shaping up to be a dud as well.

There was a rapping at the door. It was Derek. He glanced about the room, frowning when he took in the empty Chinese takeout cartons; Dean on the bed with Spencer snuggled under the covers beside him, and the damp towels in a pile just inside the open bathroom door.

“Hey Derek,” Spencer said.

“Hey,” Derek said slowly. “You ready to go?”

Spencer hesitated. “Not yet. There're still a couple minutes before we're declaring the last spell a failure. And we have one more...” he paused, biting his lip. “Would you mind waiting so we can try that one as well?”

“Sure,” Derek said amiably. “Why're you wet?”

“The last spell was a ritual cleansing that involved washing in water that had certain herbs in it. It was supposed to remove any malicious magic.” Spencer clutched the blankets closer to his chest. “I guess this doesn't really count as 'malicious magic' by this spell's reckoning.”

“Well, I can kinda see that,” Derek said, claiming the empty chair by the table. “I mean, it's not like it's _hurting_ you, this spell. Changed you, certainly, but you're not in any physical pain. Maybe that's what it meant by malicious.”

“Narrow interpretation,” Spencer grumbled.

“Maybe, but you have to admit that it's accurate,” Derek argued.

Spencer changed the subject. “Did you find anything more on Lauraine Queens' and Rodger Hamilton's murders? Anything that we can use to find their murderer?”

“Not yet,” Derek admitted. “We've got a good idea that it was Judith, Rodger's wife, but we have no solid evidence as of yet linking her to their deaths. But don't worry, if it's there, we'll find it.” The last was said more for the Winchesters than for Spencer's benefit.

“And if you can't find anything?” Sam asked curiously.

Derek raised an eyebrow. “We're _very_ good at what we do. If there's a shred of evidence, we'll find it.”

“Well, that comforting,” Dean commented grandly. Neither he nor Sam mentioned that if they found the witch who planted the hex bags first they would take care of the offender, biblically. It was very Law of Moses, if someone murdered, they were put to death. Simple, clean.

Of course, law enforcement never really saw it that way.

Spencer poked Dean in the ribs. The look on his face said that he knew what Dean was thinking and he thought Dean should stop thinking it. Dean just offered him an innocent smile and said nothing more.

“How much longer do you have to wait for this one to proof?” Derek asked.

Sam checked the time. “Another ten minutes.”

“So you've been doing,” Derek waved a hand vaguely, “spells all day?”

“Mostly. There were a couple breaks to get food, get some fresh air,” Sam said with a shrug. “And a time out for a nap, but other than that, yeah, it's just been spell after spell today.”

“Been kinda boring, actually,” Dean added. “But Spence here is _awesome_ at game shows. Did you know that?”

Derek smothered an amused smile and nodded. Dean was easier to talk to when he was on drugs, he wasn't as defensive, as abrasive. “Not such a surprise. He's got libraries in that head of his.”

“Rocks at cards, chess, and game shows,” Dean turned to Spencer. “What do you think about roleplaying conventions?”

“What?” Spencer asked, confused by the sudden change on topics.

“Roleplaying conventions. How are you at battle tactics?”

Sam laughed. “Dean. Charlie's in Oz, remember?”

“So?”

“So we don't have a queen to pardon the fact that we don't actually play the game and let us fight for her anyways,” Sam pointed out.

“I'm a little confused,” Spencer admitted to Derek.

“You're not alone.” Derek raised a black eyebrow at the Winchesters. “Care to explain?”

“Our friend Charlie is kinda into roleplaying games. One of our cases had to do with someone using actual magic to cheat in one of the conventions where they were acting out a battle for their game,” Sam explained. “After we solved the case Charlie asked us to fight in the battle as her honour guard.”

“We won the war for her,” Dean boasted.

“Good for you,” Derek told him.

“Time,” Sam announced.

Spencer sighed and unbundled himself from the cocoon of blankets he had made. “This one's gonna be messy,” he warned Derek.

“Messy how?” Derek asked warily.

“Don't worry, we can use chalk,” Sam told him.

“For what?”

Dean got off the bed and started shoving it aside to make room on the floor. Sam flipped open the last book, the one in Persian, to the spell they were planning on performing. He pointed to the diagram detailed between the text. “We need to draw this on the floor. Then there're a few herbs that need to be burnt, and a passage to be chanted a few times. If you'd just move over there, so you're not in the way,” Sam gestured to the further end of the motel room. Dean finished shoving his bed out of the way.

“Pass me the chalk, Sammy,” Dean said, holding out his hand.

Sam shook his head. “Not a chance, gimpy. I'll draw the circle. You get the talisman prepared. I don't want to see you fall on your face because you can't balance.”

Dean said something unflattering but sifted through the mess that they had purchased that morning until he came up with a coin on a leather thong. Spencer recognized it as being the one item that had been so very hideously overpriced.

“What is that for?” he asked.

“Not certain,” Sam told him as he roughly copied the diagram in the Persian book onto the dark laminate floor in white chalk. “It's one of the things needed for the spell, though.”

Spencer stared at him. “You spent over two thousand dollars on something that you don't even know what its use is?”

“We know what its use is,” Dean protested. “It's to uncurse you.”

“ _Specifically_ ,” Spencer stressed. “You don't know _specifically_ what it is for.”

“So what? If it works, it's worth it,” Dean told him.

“And if it doesn't?”

Sam paused and looked over at Spencer. “Let's not think like that, alright? Try to stay positive.”

Chastised, Spencer nodded. Stay positive. That was something that was getting to be harder to do with every failed spell. He and Derek watched as Sam finished chalking up the floor, while Dean sorted through the remains of the herbs and powders they had purchased that morning.

“Ready to start?” Sam asked, rising to his feet and dusting the chalk off his hands.

“Whenever you are,” Dean told him.

“Right. Spencer, if you could stand in the middle of the circle? Right there. Good. Alright then. Where's the bowl?” Sam looked around, frowning. Dean passed him a large beaten copper bowl that had been shoved under the table most of the day. “Thanks. We got everything else ready?”

Dean nodded, listing off nine different herbs and three powders with names that did not sound anything like how they were spelled. Spencer watched nervously from inside the circle. Dean and Sam filled the bowl with crushed the herbs, pausing before each addition for Sam to read off a word or phrase in Persian. Then Dean picked up the knife.

“Whoa! What's that for?” Derek exploded. Dean glowered at him.

“Blood, obviously,” he said.

“It's okay,” Sam told him. “Calm down.”

“Yeah,” Dean seconded. “This one's for me.” He dragged the blade over his left palm and held his hand over the copper bowl. Blood dripped while Sam spoke the prescribed words. The air in the room grew heavy. Spencer sucked in a lungful of air and shivered. Something was happening, he could feel it crackling against his skin, and it wasn't just his imagination. He glanced over at Derek who was watching with wide eyes.

“Do you feel that?” he asked.

Derek shook his head slowly. “I feel _something_ ,” he said.

Sam turned with the bowl and faced Spencer. He set the bowl on the floor before the chalk circle. There was a moment when he fumbled in his jeans pocket for a matchbook. When he found the matches he struck one and let it fall into the bowl.

There was no black powder reaction this time. This time the fire lit in an airy burst, as if the contents of the copper bowl were gaseous rather than solid. It flickered in blue tongues that licked greedily at the air. Something rushed inside and around the circle. It felt like wind, charged with something else, something unnatural. It felt strange. Spencer curled in on himself. He felt unsure and a little frightened.

Then Sam dropped the coin into the flames.

The coin dropped, but Spencer was shocked to see that it did not even remotely hit the copper bowl. At the moment it touched the blue flames the coin stopped as if trapped in a magnetic field. It spun, rotating like a gyroscope amidst the strange fire. The pressure around Spencer grew. Sam continued to recite the confusing Persian. With every word Spencer could feel something change.

“Something happening,” he said softly.

“Reid?” Derek asked, taking an abortive step forward. “What's happening? Talk to me.”

“I don't know. Something's happening. I feel... prickly. Like my insides are bigger than my skin. It's really weird.” Spencer scratched his fingernails over his arms. “Really weird.”

“You okay?” Dean asked around Sam's recitation.

“Yeah, I think so.” Spencer tried to take stock of how he was feeling but found it very difficult to concentrate.

Sam finished reading and the flames in the bowl exploded. They rushed up, startling everyone. Then, as if they were made of water, they crashed down to the floor. As they touched the floor they lit upon the chalk, lighting it aflame. Spencer could not feel any heat from the blue fire, though he could see it licking at his clothes. It did not touch him, it did not burn.

Distantly, Spencer heard Derek shout. He did not spare any attention for him, though. Something powerful was building around him. He tried to focus his thoughts: _Let me be an adult again. Remove this curse from me._

The fire burned high and bright for an eternal moment. Spencer instinctively threw up his hands to shield his face from the perceived threat. Something wrapped around him, pressing close.

Then it was gone.

Spencer stumbled. He fell to his hands and knees. His stomach cramped horribly and he retched before he realized he was going to be sick. Someone touched his back. That hurt. He cried out and flinched violently away. There was yelling above him. He threw up again, and then gagged when nothing more would come up.

“What did you do to him?” Derek demanded angrily.

“Nothing! You were here the entire time,” Dean snapped. Since Derek had dropped down beside Spencer Dean checked on Sam, who had sunk to his knees in an alarming daze after the blue fire had gone out.

“Yo, Sammy,” Dean said, slapping Sam on the cheek a couple time. “You alright there? Sammy?”

“'M fine, D'n,” Sam slurred, trying to focus on his brother for the moment. “D' i' w'rk?”

Dean lifted both eyebrows and blew out a long breath. “Something happened. Spencer's sick. You gonna be okay?”

“Nnhnn. Go see Sp'nce,” Sam directed. He slumped against Dean's bed and closed his eyes. Dean watched him for a moment before turning to Spencer and Derek.

Spencer was curled around his knees, his forehead pressed to the floor. Shudders wracked his tiny body. What was the cause, neither Derek nor Dean could tell at the moment, although he was crying as well. Dean hardly noticed the vomit. He had dealt with worse bodily fluids on and off the job, and right then Spencer's wellbeing was more important than whether or not he was kneeling in regurgitated Chinese noodles.

“Spencer,” Dean said softly, trying to get his attention. “Spencer. Hey, can you look at me?”

Spencer shook his head slightly and moaned.

“Okay. That's okay. Is it because you're still feeling sick?” he asked.

Spencer nodded.

“Alright.” Dean looked up at Derek, who glared accusingly back at him. Dean scowled back. He continued to talk to Spencer. “Are you just feeling nauseous? Anything else wrong?”

Spencer shook his head.

“Just nauseous. Okay,” Dean gently touched his shoulder. Spencer flinched a little and Dean drew back. “Did that hurt? Are you sore?”

“No” Spencer said quietly. The response was so muffled by the floor and his knees that Dean almost missed it.

He understood. “Unexpected?” Spencer nodded. “Alright then. Can I touch you? Just your back. You're wound up tighter than a drum. You need to relax.” With Spencer's permission Dean rested his good hand between Spencer's shoulder blades. He stroked gently down his spine, almost petting him. After a few minutes the tremors stopped and the little ball that was Spencer started leaning toward Dean. Dean, taking that as a positive sign, gently gathered Spencer up in his lap. He continued rubbing Spencer's back until Spencer spoke.

“I don't know what happened, but I'm still a child. I don't think it worked.”

Dean sighed. “Yeah. I'm sorry.”

“I'm covered in vomit,” Spencer observed flatly, his voice thick and wet from tears shed.

“Yeah, you are,” Dean agreed. “Feeling well enough to clean yourself up?”

Spencer took stock and almost started crying again. “Not yet,” he admitted in shame.

“Hey, hey, it's alright. Agent Morgan, could you get a damp cloth?” he asked. Derek got up and headed for the bathroom. Dean looked over toward Sam, who was still slouched against the bed, his eyes closed. “You still alive over there, Sammy?” he asked.

“Yeah, Dean,” Sam said, slurring only a little. “Jus' _really_ tired.”

“Well, no going to sleep just yet, you hear?”

Sam flapped a hand at Dean's fussing. Derek returned with a damp cloth and gently cleaned the vomit off of Spencer. Spencer let him, but could not look him in the eye. When Derek was done Spencer thanked him, almost inaudibly. Derek offered him a sad smile.

“Don't worry about it,” he said. “You'd do the same for me if I were in your shoes.”

After a long moment of silence Spencer spoke again. “It didn't work.”

He started crying again.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

Derek left with Spencer almost an hour later. He helped Dean get Sam into Dean's bed. Spencer washed up (again) once he felt up to moving on his own. They left, Derek carrying Spencer carefully in his arms. After they left, with the door chained and locked behind them, Dean looked around the little motel room. It was a wreck. The residue of the day was scattered all over everything.

Dean hurt too much to try to do anything about it. He just sighed and got himself ready for sleep. Tomorrow would be soon enough.

 

*

 

Spencer felt numb.

He was distantly aware that he had been carried bodily into Derek's truck and strapped into the car seat. The car seat he had hoped, fervently, _passionately_ , that he would not need after today. Derek got into the driver's seat. Spencer stared blindly out of the window. It should have been dark outside, and it was, but the streetlights, the lights of homes and businesses lit everything but the darkened sky. The light pollution blotted out any stars, but Spencer would not have even able to see them anyways through the tinted windows.

Lights streaked by as they drove. Time must have passed because Derek was gently rousting Spencer out of his car seat and carrying him inside the house. Spencer allowed it. He let Derek carry him in, let him take off his little shoes and his little coat. When asked if he wanted anything to eat Spencer just shook his head.

“I think I'll just go to bed,” he said softly, not looking Derek in the face. “I'm kinda tired.”

He wasn't tired. Well, he wasn't sleepy-tired. He was exhausted, though, and drained both emotionally and physically. As he walked away from Derek he could feel concerned eyes on his back. Somewhere, underneath the fog of his thoughts, he hated that, hated the pity. Perversely, he knew he was allowing himself to wallow in self-pity. He felt he had the right. After all that had happened, and was still happening, he felt he had the right to feel sorry for himself, at least for a while.

His room was as he had left it. The sight of the packed suitcase and the shopping bags of folded children's clothes drew Spencer up short. He stared blankly at them. They looked foreign, out of place. He sat down in front of his suitcase and stared at the top of it.

Derek paused outside the door. Spencer heard the floorboards creak. There was no knock, after a few minutes he moved on. Spencer did not turn.

How long he sat like that Spencer did not know.

 

*

 

Derek hesitated outside the door to Spencer's bedroom. His hand lifted to knock, but dropped without touching wood. Spencer's detached attitude reminded him uncomfortably of the time after Maeve had been murdered. The blow Spencer had taken then echoed through the BAU team with unexpected strength. No one had really realized, before that moment, how much energy Spencer brought into their lives, how much they had grown accustomed to having their own skinny genius baby brother running around, watching their backs. Spencer's grief was absolute when he watched Maeve die before him, helpless to stop the bullet that killed her. He had mourned terribly then and his friends mourned with him, for him. He had the same look about him now.

Turning from the door, Derek decided to leave Spencer alone for now. He had some calls to place.

 

*

 

Spencer did not want to go anywhere the next morning. Derek accepted the barely audible announcement and called Hotch to inform his boss that he would be staying home.

 _“Should I assume things did not go well yesterday?”_ Hotch asked.

Derek glanced down the hall to where Spencer had yet to emerge. “He's still the same, if that's what you mean.”

 _“So it didn't work,”_ Hotch said with a sigh.

“Not that we can tell,” Derek told him. He poured himself a cup of coffee and doctored it to his taste. “I can say that _something_ happened, but I don't know what.”

_“What do you mean?”_

Derek explained what he had witnessed the night before. He answered Hotch's questions as best her could, which, admittedly, was not as well as he wished. When he wound down his recitation Hotch asked if he had heard anything from the Winchesters since he left the night before. Derek admitted that, no, he had not.

 _“I'll give them a call,”_ Hotch said. _“Maybe they know more about what happened. Or about what_ didn't _happen, as the case may be.”_

“Dean didn't seem to know much last night,” Derek pointed out.

_“That was last night. They might know more today. I'll give them a call after we talk to the police about Lauraine Queens and Rodger Hamilton's killer. You... keep an eye on Reid.”_

Derek promised that he would. The call was ended on that note. He stared at his phone for a moment before tucking it into his back pants pocket. Spencer had already declined breakfast, so Derek was left at somewhat loose ends, not wanting to leave the house. He picked up his cup of coffee and called Penelope. She could at least give him someone to talk to so he wasn't left completely in the blind about the investigation and how it was proceeding.

 

*

 

Dean woke first, his arm aching horribly. He groaned, deep and heartfelt. It felt like he had gone three rounds with a feral werewolf. Sitting up he tried to swing his legs over the side of the bed only to find another bed in the way.

He crawled awkwardly to the end of his bed. His bed now. Sam's bed the night before. Sam.

Scraping a bleary hand over his face he yawned and glanced over at his brother. Sam had rolled onto his side and pulled the blankets up around his ears. Dean shuffled around the bed. He prodded Sam in the spine. Sam grunted and wiggled away from the attack. Okay. He was still alive. That was good. After the fire-and-lights show the night before Dean really did not know what to expect. With one eye on Sam's back Dean got to work cleaning up the room. The remains of herbs were scraped into the trash bin. The brass and copper bowls were rinsed out in the bathroom and set to dry upside down. Knives and talismans were collected and stowed carefully and properly away in the duffel bags.

Sam's phone rang. It took a few seconds before Dean found it. Only vaguely recognizing the number he answered the call.

“Hello?”

There was a slight pause. _“Dean Winchester?”_

“That's me,” Dean said. The caller sounded familiar but Dean could not place him immediately.

_“This is SSA Aaron Hotchner.”_

Well, that explained the tenuous familiarity. “What can I do for you, Agent Hotchner?” Dean asked as he continued to clean. He found a towel and dusted off the chalk circle on the floor.

_“I'm calling to ask about how yesterday went. What can you tell me?”_

Dean considered his answer. “Well,” he said, scratching an itch on the side of his nose, “nothing at all happened for the first five counter curses we tried. Sammy did most of the casting, since I got a busted arm. It was just easier. Anyways, quiet day, nothing happened with most of the spells, which was really getting Spencer down. Then we tried the last one. It's an old Persian ritual we found. Magic circle, bowl of herbs, talisman blessed by gods of healing and medicine, blood of a defender. You get the idea, right?”

 _“Blood?”_ Hotch asked, surprised.

“Yeah, some spells require blood. This one used mine. Anyways, once it was lit things got... really interesting.” He briefly described what had happened. He ended with describing how sick Spencer had become, how Sam had been exhausted to the point of near-incoherency and was still sleeping.

 _“Is your brother alright?”_ Hotch asked when Dean wound down.

Dean glanced over at Sam. “I think so. Maybe. He's still asleep, which is pretty unlike him. You heard from Spencer today?”

 _“I have heard from Derek,”_ Hotch admitted. _“He said that Spencer is... not taking this well. Spencer refused to go anywhere this morning, so Derek is staying home with him.”_

Dropping down into a chair Dean stared blankly at Sam's back. “Yeah, I can imagine,” he murmured. “We're going to keep looking into what we can do. You have my word.”

There was a long moment of silence. Then Hotch, his voice quiet and honest, thanked Dean. They ended the call not long afterwards. Dean tossed Sam's phone onto the tabletop. What _had_  happened the night before? The spell had done something to Spencer, it had to have otherwise why would Sam be as exhausted as he was. Something had happened to Spencer. Dean just wasn't sure _what_.

 

*

 

Spencer emerged from the guest bedroom, his bedroom, as silent as a ghost. Derek watched from the sofa in the living room as Spencer skirted into the kitchen. He debated setting aside his tablet with all the case information downloaded onto it – thank you Garcia – and approaching his cursed teammate and house guest. He decided against it. He would wait until Spencer felt safe enough to approach him rather than push and perhaps scare Spencer away.

He could hear things being moved around in the kitchen. The refrigerator opened, closed. A cupboard door clicked shut. Cereal was poured into a bowl. It seemed Spencer finally decided that he needed to eat. That was good. He hadn't let himself forget to take care of his body. That was _very_ good.

Derek thumbed through the information he had on his tablet. Penelope had promised to send him everything that the rest of the team got, along with context so he would know why certain information had been requested. He had already read through most of it over the previous days but he could feel it, in his gut, that there was something that they were all missing. Something small, but important to cracking the case – _cases_ – wide open.

The refrigerator door opened, closed. A chair scraped across the tiled floor. There was a clatter of ceramic dishes and metal silverware being put into the sink. The chair scraped back across the floor.

Spencer drifted out of the kitchen and back down the hall. Derek watched him out of the corner of his eye as he vanished down the hall. He sighed, worried for his friend. Spencer was the highly intelligent only child of a mentally ill single mother. He had a hard time asking for help, relying on others when it came to anything personal. Derek knew that. Their whole team (barring perhaps Alex) knew that. It was hardly secret, hardly new news. But it was hard to sit on the sidelines and watch as he struggled, knowing that any offer of comfort, any offer of aid had to be given at just the right moment or it would be summarily, but politely, rejected.

It was a little like coaxing a feral cat. You had to be patient. Very, _very_ patient. Eventually he would come on his own.

Derek went back to his reading.

Patience.

 

*

 

Aaron Hotchner watched as the police broke up after he and his team – those that had come in that day, which was just him, JJ, and Rossi – delivered their profile of their witchy murderer. He was uncertain whether or not their profile would be of any use. The Winchesters had determined that there were two different witches killing, but other than mentioning the possibility of two different murderers to the police, the BAU team had not put too much stress on the fact. The results were too similar to pass off as copycatting. The possibility that it was more than one person working together had been presented, though. All in all, the profile had been vaguer than he cared for. He did not like it.

“How's Spencer?” JJ asked, her dark eyes filled with worry.

Hotch motioned for her and Rossi to precede him into one of the rooms used for talking to witnesses. “Not too well,” he said after he closed the door behind them. “Apparently one of the rituals they tried did something, but it did not break the curse. He's still a child.”

“What did it do then?”

“We don't know.” Hotch shook his head. “I talked to Dean not too long ago. Apparently whatever happened has exhausted Sam, who was casting the spell, to the point where he was insensate.”

“Is he alright?” Rossi asked, frowning.

“Again, I don't know. He hadn't woken when I talked with Dean, and Dean sounded worried over that.”

Rossi grimaced. He liked the Winchester brothers, despite their colourfully spotted legal reputation. They were good people. He made a mental note to call Dean when he could, to see if they wanted or needed anything. He wondered if they would accept. They seemed to be two young men who were more accustomed to surviving on their own than they were asking for or accepting outside help. But, who knew.

“The best thing we can do right now is it focus on the case,” Hotch told them. “The more we can find out, the better.”

“Of course,” JJ agreed. She still looked worried over Spencer, but she knew him well enough that she knew that he would not appreciate a flood of sympathetic friends at the moment. Still... she quickly tapped out a text and sent it to him: _Heard things didn't go as hoped yesterday. When you want to talk, give me a call._

 

 

*

 

Spencer wandered out into the living room sometime just before ten o'clock. Derek had to firmly remind himself not to freeze, not to stare, not to look like he was pitying his cursed teammate and friend. Instead, he watched with an air of casual, polite interest, as Spencer sat down in an armchair. Spencer pulled out his phone and dialed. He put it on speaker so they could both participate.

 _“You have reached the Goddess of the Internet, what is your petition, o believer? Speak and be heard,”_ said Penelope when the call connected.

“Garcia, how many of the coven are married or have children?” Spencer asked. He looked and sounded subdued, pale, drawn.

 _“Oh good! You're alive!”_ she exclaimed. Then she got to work. _“All of them are married with the exception of Lauraine Queens and Victoria Dixon, who are not. Ethan and Susan Iveson have two children, both boys, while Conner and Clair MacDonnell have one daughter.”_

“Have there been any changes in behavior recently, within the last two to three years, for any of them?” Spencer asked.

_“I will look into that for you. Anything I can do?”_

“No. Thank you Garcia,” Spencer said. He ended the call. For a long moment he stared at Derek's knees.

Derek broke the silence. “How're you doing?” he asked.

“I've been better,” Spencer admitted softly. He bit his lip. “I'm going to have to learn to live with this, aren't I?”

“I don't know, Reid. I don't know.”

“I'm going to have to create a new life, somehow,” Spencer mused despondently. “Spencer Reid is going to have to, I don't know, _die_ or something like that.”

Derek wanted to protest that 'Spencer Reid' wouldn't have to die, but the words froze in his throat. It was a distinct possibility that that might just be what would need to happen. He did not even want to contemplate that. “We'll figure something out,” he promised instead.

“If this is... permanent,” Spencer said, blinking rapidly. Derek waited. Spencer swallowed and took a deep breath. “If this is going to be permanent I'm going to have to figure out what I'm going to do. I mean... I'm _four_ again. I can't work, I'm going to have to go back to school – _elementary school!_ I can't live alone. What am I supposed to do? There's no paperwork for a Spencer Reid that's four years old. _I don't even exist!_ I can’t go back to elementary school, it would drive me insane! I can't keep living with you, it would drive _you_ insane!”

“Hey now,” Derek protested, “it hasn't been _that_ bad, has it?”

Spencer leveled an glare at him. “Have you been out with your girlfriend even _once_ since I got cursed?” he asked. When Derek did not answer he nodded sharply. “You have a life, Derek. Having to adopt a kid – one that's not even really a kid – is just going to ruin that.”

“Don't think like that,” Derek cautioned. “You wouldn't ruin anything.”

“So, _you_ want to explain to her about what happened, why I am the way I am? The magic, the witches, the demons?” Spencer challenged him. “How do you think she'd take it? Think she'd believe you?”

Derek sighed and shook his head. “I don't know. Probably not.”

“Bet she'd be a bit surprised if you just suddenly up and adopted a skinny little white kid without any hint of warning,” Spencer said, not unkindly but factually. “And I... I really don't want to have to pretend, Derek. I don't want to have to pretend I'm a kid when I'm really not.”

That was understandable. “Alright. So, I'm ruled out as a potential legal guardian?” Spencer nodded slowly, looking away. He looked defeated. Derek could not let that stand. “Hey, hey. Spencer, look at me. It is going to be alright, you hear? There is no power on Earth that will keep us from doing _whatever_ we can to help.”

“Don't say that,” Spencer said seriously. “There are a lot of things on Earth that no one should do for me or for anyone else.”

“I'm just sayin', you can count on us,” Derek said earnestly. “Whatever you need, we are all behind you one hundred per cent.”

Spencer nodded. He sniffed and dashed a loose fist over his eyes, catching tears. “I know. Thank you,” he said wetly. Derek slid off the sofa and knelt in front of the armchair. He rested a gently hand on Spencer's shoulder, marveling for a moment at how tiny his friend was. Spencer tipped hesitantly forward and Derek caught him up in an embrace, pulling him off the chair and onto his lap. Hot tears soaked into Derek's shirt as Spencer hid his face in the crook of his neck. Derek held him tight, offering the support that Spencer so desperately needed at that moment.

There was nothing to hint at Spencer being an adult at that moment. He clung to Derek, his arms around Derek's neck, as he cried over what had been done to him. Derek had to hold him up, since Spencer did not seem to be able to accomplish anything but sob and sob. They stayed like that for an eternity. Tears flowed and hitching, gasping breaths were the only sound Spencer made. Lost for anything else to do Derek rubbed gentle circles on Spencer's back, offering comfort. What else could he do?

When Spencer's tears slowed he pulled away. Derek let him. A moment later he found a box of tissue and offered it to Spencer. Spencer pulled out four sheets and used all of them to clean himself up.

“Feel any better?” Derek asked.

“No,” Spencer admitted woefully.

“You will. Maybe not today, maybe not next month. Maybe not even next _year._ But at some point, you'll feel better.”

Spencer shook his head. He could not see himself feel good about this at _any_ point in his future. He had been handicapped in a horrifically cruel fashion. He faced literal _years_ before he could reclaim a fraction of his life, and even then it would never be able to be _his_ life, the life he had created for himself the first time around, the life he loved.

It was over.

His phone rang. He pulled out out from between the chair cushion and the arm where it had wedged itself when he had lost control of his emotions. “Hey Garcia,” he said as he accepted the call.

 _“Have I told you lately how smart you are?”_ she asked as an opener.

“Did you find anything unusual?” He sat down on the floor beside Derek.

 _“Depends on your definition of 'unusual,' I suppose,”_ she said. _“I looked into our book club's families and at first nothing really stood out to me. But then I noticed something.”_ She told them what she had found and as she spoke Derek understood what Spencer had been thinking.

“Why didn't we think of that before?” Derek wondered.

“Demons are new territory for us,” Spencer reasoned. “You call Hotch. I'll call the Winchesters.”

 

*

 

Dean had cleaned up the motel room as much as he could. Other than the one bed being a few feet removed from its original position, the room looked nearly spotless. He had written a note just in case Sam woken when he went out to pick up breakfast. When he returned Dean found everything, Sam included, just as he had left them. With nothing else to really do, and worried about Sam, Dean settled himself at the table with the laptop open in front of him. Might as well get some research done, he figured.

It was at about 10:30 that the silence in the motel room was shattered. Dean's phone rang, a snippet from a favourite rock song singing out briefly before Dean answered the call.

“Yeah?” he asked, focused on the online newspapers he was sifting through.

 _“Conner MacDonnell,”_ said a young voice.

“Spencer?” Dean asked. “Who?”

 _“Conner MacDonnell,”_ Spencer said again. Then he explained. _“We were looking at the witches as possible suspects for being the demon behind the coven but we totally forgot the people around them. About two and a half years ago, six months before the time that Victoria Dixon claims the spells everyone was trying actually started working, Conner and Clair MacDonnell were in serious marital trouble, and they were in debt because Conner had lost his job. Then, all of a sudden, two years ago, almost exactly, everything changed for them. Conner got a new job, a_ better _job. They repaired their marriage...”_

“And the magic started working,” Dean finished.

_“Exactly. I think we should check out Mister MacDonnell.”_

“Not alone, you aren't,” Dean told him.

Spencer sighed loudly. _“I didn't mean_ me _.”_

“Better not have. By the way, how're you doing today? Everything alright?”

 _“I'm fine,”_ Spencer said. Dean wasn't convinced. _“How's Sam? Is he there?”_

Dean glanced over at Sam. “Yeah, he's here. He's still asleep. Hasn't woken up since he passed out last night. That spell did _something_ , I just don't know what. You get cursed some other way we don't know about? Could it have something to do with something like that?”

 _“Not that I know of,”_ Spencer said slowly.

“Right,” Dean said thoughtfully. “Well, I'll keep on it.”

_“I know. Thanks.”_

Dean frowned. Spencer sounded defeated. He couldn't blame him, really. Dean did not know how he would react if he had been cursed as Spencer had. “You take care of yourself, alright?” he said. “And gimme a call if you need anything. I mean that.”

There was a heavy pause. Then Spencer spoke. _“I will. And thank you for trying.”_ They said goodbye and the call was ended.

Dean set his phone down beside the laptop and ran a hand through his hair. He considered the call. Why had they not thought to look at the families? If the hunch paid off they could have this wrapped up before they knew it. Well, they'd have the murders solved, at least. Spencer would still be cursed. That wasn't ideal. Far from it.

Turning back to the laptop Dean searched _Conner MacDonnell_. Time to find what he could.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Sam woke slowly. That, in and of itself, was odd. He felt like he had been drugged. His head throbbed, even his _hair_ pulsed with a slow roiling ebb and flow of pain. When he shifted all of his joints and muscles ached, though not as badly as his head ached. A groan tore out of his throat.

“Sammy?” Dean asked from behind him. Sam groaned again. He did _not_ want to move if this was how he was going to feel. Unfortunately, he was a Winchester, and that meant that had been trained to scoff in the face of pain, laugh at discomfort, and eat affliction for breakfast. It tasted chalky, affliction did. Sam didn't particularly like it.

“You awake there?” Dean persisted. Knowing his brother Sam convinced his limbs to move so he could turn onto his other side. He did not think that he could sit up at that moment, but he would turn over. And he did. It took him longer than he would have liked to admit, but he managed to turn himself over even as his body screamed white hot glass at him.

“Yeah?” Sam said when he had managed to settle himself into a somewhat more comfortable position. “How long was I out?”

Dean studied Sam carefully even as he answered. “It's half past noon now. You've been out for eighteen hours, just about. How're you feelin'?”

“Ev'ry thin' h'rts,” he confessed, closing his eyes. He swallowed. “Di' it w'rk?”

“No. Spencer's still a kid. _Something_ happened. I just don't know what. How else could you explain the light show and you looking like you had all the colour leeched outta you?”

Sam felt a wash of disappointment at the news. He felt like he had been put through a meat grinder and he had nothing to show for it. “Sp'nce?”

“Talked to him a couple hours ago. Didn't sound too good. Depressed, I think, not that I can blame him. He did have a lead on who the demon might be.”

That was good. Finding the demon was important. Right? Oh, Sam felt tired. And he hurt. “I h'rt,” he mumbled.

“Need to take something for it?” Dean asked. Sam heard him get up and move about the room. Something was unzipped – a duffel bag, Sam thought. There was a rattle of a pill bottle. Sam wiggled a hand out from under the covers and let it lay, open and palm upwards, on the pillow. Dean gave him two pills and Sam swallowed them dry. He snaked his hand back under the covers and waited for the pills to take effect.

Dean caught him up on what was going on. Sam listened with only half an ear. His head felt muddy. The chatter that Dean offered faded into the background as Sam tried to stay awake. It was a lost cause.

Sam drifted back to sleep.

 

*

 

The rest of that day passed fairly quietly. Hotch and the rest of the BAU team agreed that Spencer's theory held merit, but since no one wanted to confront a demon and Dean was minding a out-of-commission Sam, there was no one to act as backup. So, they put confronting Conner MacDonnell onto the list of things to do later. Hotch had asked Penelope to look into Judith Hamilton's life, to see what she could find that might link her to the deaths of her husband and his mistress, anything at all that would give them probable cause and allow them to look closer.

Penelope was the best at what she did. When she introduced herself over the phone as the Goddess of Wisdom, as the All Knowing Oracle, even as the High Priestess of the Temple of Knowledge, no one who knew her could find it in themselves to argue her claim. Given an internet connection and a few minutes time there was very little she could not do when she put her mind to it. So, when her boss asked her to find probable cause on Judith Hamilton that was what she searched for.

And found.

“What do you got, Garcia?” Hotch asked as he answered her phone call.

 _“So much, Sir, so very much,”_ She told him immediately, her voice active and full of reigned in energy. _“I have internet transactions, I have emails, I have photographs. Did you know that she hired a private investigator to look into her husband? They have_ numerous _emails back and forth – Judith and the PI. She wanted to know if Rodger was stepping out on her and boy was she provided evidence that he was.”_

“What was the name of the Private Investigator she hired?” Hotch asked. She told him and sent the information to his phone. “What can you tell me about him?”

There was a pause, filled with the clack of keyboard keys, before Penelope answered. _“Pretty average for you run of the mill PI. A few breaking and entering charges, nothing too interesting. Judith Hamilton sent her last payment to him... five days ago.”_

“Thanks Garcia.”

_“I live to serve.”_

Hotch ended the call and strode over to Rossi and JJ and informed them of what he had just learned.

“We need to talk to Judith,” JJ pointed out.

“I know that. Unfortunately, I don't think that would be wise, not until we can be certain she won't pull something...” Hotch trailed off.

Rossi raised an eyebrow and finished the sentence for him. “Magical?”

“Indeed.”

JJ groaned in frustration. “I don't like this,” she said. “I feel like we're being hobbled.”

“The magic does give this case an extra facet to be aware of,” Rossi agreed neutrally.

“There's nothing we can do about that,” Hotch said. “I understand how you feel, I really do. I don't know what else we can do. We are simply not train nor are we equipped to deal with anything mystical. So, for the time being, we must rely on those who _are_. We have no problem stepping aside and letting the CDC, or a bomb squad, take over when the occasion calls for it. This is not that different.”

“I know,” JJ said. “But it _feels_ different.”

Rossi smiled at her. “Because Dean and Sam are wanted fugitives in the eyes of the law?”

“Probably.” JJ smiled back. “That's probably what it is. I'm having a hard time forgetting that.”

“You're not alone in that,” Rossi told her gently. “Just try and remember that they're doing a job similar to our own, but without any of the legal protections that we have.”

JJ nodded. “I'll try to keep that in mind.”

“Do,” Rossi said. He patted her on the shoulder. “There's more in Heaven and Earth. We're only brushing the surface.”

“Indeed,” said Hotch. “I'll give the Winchesters a call to see whether or not one or both are able to assist us. If they are, I would like to interview Judith Hamilton about her husband's death. If not... well, I suppose that will have to wait.”

They went back to their files and the boards in the conference room. Hotch stepped out to place his call without disturbing them as they worked. Rossi's phone rang not long after. He checked the number and frowned. It was not one he recognized and the area code placed it out of state, from Oregon, actually. Murmuring an apology to JJ he stepped out also to take the call.

Turned out that it really was an important call.

 

*

 

Dean had noticed not long after Sam had fallen back asleep that his younger brother was not listening to him. He frowned. Whatever had happened to Sam because of that spell was really concerning. A couple of extra strength Tylenol should not have knocked Sam out. Careful not to disturb him, Dean checked Sam's forehead for signs of a fever. He was a little warmer than usual, but that could be easily explained by sleeping under warm covers.

At a loss as for what he should do, Dean sat back down at the table and stared at the laptop. With a shake of his head he pulled out the Persian spellbook and flipped it open to the pages that detailed the spell that they had used the night previous. On the internet he found a translation site that he and Sam had used in the past. He got to work. Maybe he could find some answers.

Translating text without a solid grounding – or even _any_ grounding at all – in the language made things very difficult, tedious, and time consuming. Dean was only about thirteen words in after an hour of work when his phone rang. He checked the number out of habit before he answered.

“Agent Hotchner, what can I do for you?” he asked, carefully typing in another word into the translation program.

 _“I'm calling to inquire as to how you and your brother are doing,”_ Hotch told him. _“And to inform you that we have evidence that could lead to an arrest in Lauraine Queens and Rodger Hamilton's murders.”_

Dean paused. “Really? That's good to hear. You going to talk to her?”

 _“Not without either yourself or your brother present, just in case they try to do something,”_ Hotch said.

“Smart move. Unfortunately both Sam and I seem to be out of commission today. Sam woke up for about a minute around 12:30. He didn't stay awake for long, just long enough to tell me he was hurtin' pretty bad.”

Dean must have sounded more worried than he thought he had. _“Is he alright? How bad is bad?”_ he asked, obviously concerned.

Scratching his cheek Dean leaned back in his chair. “Well, judging by the way he was moving when he woke up I'd estimate he was somewhere around an eight or a nine on the pain scale of one to ten.”

_“That doesn't sound good. Shouldn't you take him to a hospital?”_

“Now that _would_ be a good idea,” Dean said. “Except that us and hospitals, we don't really go together well. Nearly died in them a few times too many for them to be a place we'd want to go. Rather not risk it if we don’t have to. Anyways, I'm keeping an eye on him. If anything goes south, I'll call an ambulance.” He did not know why he felt that he needed to reassure the FBI agent. Dean shrugged it off.

 _“That's good to hear. I'm sorry that he's not well. Let me know when he's awake and mobile again, will you? We can't hold up our investigations for too long,”_ Hotch told him.

Dean could understand that all too well. He promised that he would let Hotch know when Sam was ready to get back to work. Hotch thanked him, and the call was ended. Dean shook his head. Things were just not going their way right now.

 

*

 

Sam woke up early the next morning feeling much better. He was still inexplicably sore, but his head no longer throbbed with every beat of his heart and he no longer felt like someone had lined all of his joints with sandpaper and lead. Taking stock of his he felt, Sam carefully shifted and sat up. He swung his feet to the floor and had to pause because he felt too dizzy to safely move. When he felt steadier he got to his feet and carefully shuffled to the bathroom. By the time he was done Sam felt like he could sleep for another whole day. Holding onto the walls, the table, whatever was close to hand, he managed to crawl his way back into bed.

Three hours later he woke again, this time feeling almost normal. Dean was up and working at the table, the laptop and a book open in front of him. He glanced over when Sam moved.

“You're alive,” Dean said, with a relived smile.

“You were worried?” Sam asked. He sat up and ran his hands through his hair, trying to straighten the tangle.

Dean turned away from the laptop and book. “Sam, you were out for a day and a half. I spent all of yesterday wondering whether or not I should just give in a take you to the hospital to see what was wrong. Do you even remember waking up?”

Startled, Sam tried to think. He had been asleep that long? “No,” he said slowly. “I don't remember waking up. Did I miss anything? How's Spencer? Did it work?”

Biting back irritation at having to repeat himself Dean again told Sam what had happened. Sam listened. That the spell had not worked was a great disappointment but that it had backlashed so wildly on him was what Sam found to be the strangest part of it all. He busied himself getting ready for the day while Dean talked.

“Agent Hotchner asked us to give him a call when we’re up and running,” finished Dean.

Sam nodded, coming out of the bathroom. “Alright,” he said. “I'm good. How's your arm?”

Dean glanced down at his cast as if he had forgotten it was there, which he hadn't, not really. “I'm good to go.”

“Right. Breakfast?”

“On the way?” It would save them time. And Sam felt a little guilty at wasting a day.

“Sounds good to me.”

“I'll give him a call.”

Sam snatched up the car keys. “And I'll drive.”

 

*

 

Sam and Dean met up with Hotch and Rossi at Judith Hamilton's home about two hours later. They parked behind the intimidating, large, black SUV. Taking a moment to make sure they had the right fake IDs on them they got out of the little silver plastic hybrid that Dean still did not like and greeted the real FBI with handshakes all around. Dean commented on the bruising that Rossi had around the healing cut on his temple. Rossi asked how Dean's ribs were feeling. Hotch then asked Sam how he was doing. Sam shrugged.

“I'll be fine,” he told the older man. “Feeling much better. Shouldn't we be talking to Judith?”

Hotch eyed Sam carefully, obviously judging whether or not Sam had told him the truth. Sam met his gaze, not fazed at all. He had, after all, grown up under the controlling thumb of John Winchester. Such an environment produced two kinds of children: the deferential and the defiant, and he had certainly not been a deferential child where his father had been concerned.

“Dean caught you up on what happened?” Hotch asked after a staring contest that seemed to reassure him that Sam was in acceptable health.

“I think so,” Sam said.

Hotch nodded. “Good.”

They walked up to the front door and ring the doorbell. Sam and Dean casually hung back a bit, trying to make the group of four look a little less intimidating. They did not, after all, want to scare Judith into doing something rash, just to question her.

The door was opened by a woman who resembled Judith – shorter, just as blonde, same nose. They introduced themselves. The woman, Judith's sister, took one look at their badges and escorted them inside. Judith was speaking softly with a small mixed group of men and women when her sister touched her on the shoulder to get her attention. Judith saw them and all the blood left her face.

“What can I do for you now?” she asked, moving politely away from the group of people she had been talking to. “What is it about this time? My _husband_ just died.

“We're aware of that, ma'am,” Hotch told her, “and we are sorry for your loss. We have some questions that we need to ask, though.”

“Why? Why is the _FBI_ interested in Rodger's death?” Judith looked artfully confused and distraught.

“The manner in which he died is similar to several unsolved cases. We don't believe that they were either accidental or natural in cause. We need your help finding the killer.” Hotch said it all with such a straight face that Dean and Sam were impressed. The man had some serious skills in the arena of improvisation acting.

Judith ate it right up. She relaxed the tension that had set into her back and shoulders the moment she had turned to face them. “Whatever I can do,” she pledged. “We can talk in the kitchen.”

The conversation was much as they suspected it would be. Judith claimed no knowledge of who could be behind her husband's death. He had no enemies, everyone loved him, and that she had not noticed any suspicious people hanging around. Every answer she gave spelled out the word _liar_. They smiled professionally and pretended that they did not know any better. Judith, in her hubris, took them at face value. They asked if they could look at his computer. Judith hesitated but gave in. She gave them Rodger's laptop, explaining that there was no desktop in the house, they both had laptops. Rossi took it, tucking it under his good arm. They would pass it over to Penelope to go through. If there was anything on it, she would be the one who could find it.

“Do you think that maybe he knew something?” Judith asked, frowning at the laptop. “Was he targeted for some reason? Do you think that was why he was killed?”

“We don't know that yet,” Rossi told her. “When we know something we'll be sure to keep you informed.”

Hotch handed her his card. “If you think of anything please either give us a call, or you can come in to our offices,” he requested.

“I will,” she promised, taking the card.

They left the interview at that. Judith watched them leave, standing a few paces away from the front windows, her arms folded across her chest. They pretended that they did not see.

“Do you think she bought it?” Dean asked.

Sam made a face. “Hope so. Otherwise we just wasted an hour taunting a witch who had already proven she's not above killing.”

“Always a fun time,” Rossi commented, his voice as dry as a desert.

“You and I have very different ideas of 'fun,' Dave,” said Hotch.

 

*

 

“Well, what do you know,” Dean commented idly as he and Sam watched Judith Hamilton walked into the midst of BAU desks. She was, of course, escorted, but the escort left after pointing to where Derek and Rossi were consulting with each other over a handful of file folders.

“She came,” Sam said. “Do you think she'll actually try something here?”

Dean shrugged, shaking his head. “Who knows? Lady's chock full 'o crazy, she just might think it’s worth the risk.”

They lingered at the edges of the conference room window that overlooked the bullpen, watching. The conversation seemed normal. Derek and Rossi set aside their file folders and gave Judith their full attention. She looked a little uncertain, but determined. Both of the Winchesters agreed that her uncertainty looked more than just a little contrived.

Keeping watch on everything Judith did it was Sam who caught it.

“Did you see that?” he asked Dean.

“No. What?”

“She slipped something into that desk drawer,” Sam said, pointing through the glass.

Dean's mouth tightened. “D'you think it's what I think it is, Sammy?”

“Could be.” Sam inched towards the door, not looking away from the window, from Judith in the bullpen, his posture coiled and ready. Dean copied him.

“You know,” Dean commented, “this is the first time we've actually _seen_ a witch plant one of those things.”

“Feels a bit weird, watching it,” Sam said.

Dean concurred. “I feel like we should be doing something about it, not just standing around,” he complained softly. He hated waiting, hated holding back. He knew, of course, the reason _why_ they had to wait before acting, but the knowledge, logical as it was, grated against his upbringing, his training, the core of his very self. In short: it made him tense and unhappy. Sam, on the other hand, was better at this sort of waiting than Dean. He could coil his patience around himself and wait, like a great stalking predator, waiting for just the right moment to snap into action. Not that Dean couldn't still himself. He could. Their father had trained him to be a Hunter from a young age, after all. Dean could out-hunt anyone and was matched only by Sam these days. They were, in all honesty, the best.

That did not mean that they weren't still human.

Dean shifted his weight from one foot to the other, easing slowly into the motion with only half a thought. Sam's hand drifted towards the lever of the door handle. They watched impatiently as the FBI talked to the witch, waited for her to do something, waited for the hammer to fall.

Surprising both Dean and Sam, they did not have very long to wait. Not fifteen seconds had passed from the time Rossi, with a veneer of congeniality, escorted Judith Hamilton into the elevator and the doors closed in front of them then Derek doubled over, clutching one hand at his desk to hold him upright, the other pressed to his mouth. Blood seeped between his fingers.

“Dean, get the bag!” Sam snapped as he dashed over to Derek and helped ease him to the floor.

“Someone call the agent with Judith and get her arrested,” Dean directed, scrabbling through desk drawer where he and Sam had seen the hex bag get placed. As Derek gagged out a fresh mouthful of blood Dean snatched up the accursed hex bag. Seconds later, after frantic scrambling for a lighter, the bag was lit afire. Dean dropped the bag, engulfed in eerie blue flames, into a trash basket and kicked it away from anything that might catch on fire and cause a problem.

Rossi was crouched next to Sam and Derek, barking orders into his phone. Someone – one of the BAU-adjacent agents – informed them that paramedics had been called for and were on their way. A loose ring of concerned, confused, and alarmed FBI agents gathered and milled uselessly about the BAU bullpen. With the hex bag smouldering, the flames dying out, Derek stopped gagging so violently on a torrent of his own blood. He gasped heavily and leaned against Sam and Rossi's support, trying to regain himself. Dean eyed the mess critically.

“Anyone know where she is?” he asked. “Is she in custody?”

Rossi groped for his phone, which he had dropped in favour of supporting his teammate and friend. He dialed a number and put it to his ear. After a short, terse, and monosyllabic conversation he tucked the phone back into his pocket.

“They got her,” he declared.

“Good. Derek, how're you doing?” Sam asked. Derek groaned and shuddered. He shook his head, his hand not leaving his blood-stained mouth.

“How do you think he's doing?” Dean snarked. “The sooner he gets to a hospital, the better. Who knows how much damage has been done.”

“Positive, Dean, thanks,” Sam said dryly. “Way to sound reassuring in front of a victim.”

“Shut up.”

“Just hold on, Derek. The EMTs should be here soon,” Rossi said. He hardly paid the Winchester brothers any attention, more concerned with Derek and his uncertain condition. Derek looked pale; his hands trembled where they were clenched against his chest and against his mouth. His breathing was laboured and frighteningly wet-sounding. Rossi did not like the pallor that turned the normally dark brown skin a chalky hue.

Penelope raced into the bullpen as fast as she possibly could in four-inch heels and dropped to her knees beside Derek, her hands ghosting over his chest and face, eventually tangling in the hand he did not have pressed against his mouth. She babbled out half coherent sentences, reassurances, well-meaning platitudes. Her makeup was ruined with tears.

“Hey, hey, Babygirl, I'm gonna be fine,” Derek choked out.

“Fine? Fine! How is this at _all_ fine?” she demanded. “What did she even _do_ to you?”

“Calm down, Garcia,” Rossi advised. She shot him a, helpless, teary look. He reached out and patted her shoulder. Reluctantly, she nodded. Her hands, however, continued to clutch desperately at Derek's.

The EMTs arrived minutes later. They hoisted Derek onto a gurney and got information from Rossi, as they went back to the elevator. Penelope followed, insisting that she would go to the hospital with Derek – best friend's prerogative. Sam and Dean hung back. They weren't needed anymore, not at the moment. They'd help cook up some plausible story that would link Derek's attack to Judith, clean up the remains of the hex bag in the trash bin. They would figure out how to make this stick, _legally_. Because if they couldn't... well, it would be a waste to have to ruin the trust they had been building with the BAU team by killing her.

But first, they had to double check that Judith _had_ actually been arrested and was in custody. _Never trust someone else's word when it came to dealing with monsters_ was their father's admonition. You can trust other hunters (which was debatable, in Sam and Dean's experience), but civilians just did not know what needed to be done (another debatable fact, as both Sam and Dean had come across civilians that _could_ do the job on their own with only a little guidance). Sam would be the first in line to declare that John Winchester had been less than a good father to himself and Dean – he hadn't even been a good father for Adam either, and it seemed like he actually _tried_ with that little secret family – but even he had taken John's research and advise pertaining to hunting as almost-law. Dean had taken everything John said as gospel. Even now it was hard to get him to admit that John hadn't been a good father. Sam had all but given up trying. Thankfully, having years between their last moments with John and the present, Dean had been able to ground himself, become an individual rather than the perfect little soldier that daddy had carefully, brutally, molded from his childhood. He drank less, whored less, he even stopped hunting every once in a while to have _fun_ with actual _friends_. Sam was proud of him.

So, acting on the teachings of their father, Sam and Dean stopped by the washroom to clean themselves up a bit. They knew better than to try to con their way through the FBI headquarters without legitimate backup – that was just asking for a kind of trouble they did not want – so Dean pulled out his cellphone and called Hotch.

He opened the conversation with “Judith Hamilton tried to put the whammy on Agent Morgan.” Hotch was silent on the other side of the line. It was not a happy sounding silence. Dean continued. “We got to him in time. He should be fine. Penelope's going to the hospital with him. We need you to double check and make sure she's behind bars.”

“I'm in a meeting right now,” Hotch said. “But as soon as I can I'll make sure. Shouldn't be too long.”

“Great. Give us a call when you do, will you?”

Hotch promised and Dean tucked away his phone. He glanced over at Sam, who had gotten his phone out and was talking to Spencer. He looked grim. When the call ended he turned to Dean.

“What is it?” Dean asked, his stomach sinking.

“Guess where Spencer's heading?”

Dean cursed. He didn't even try to be quiet about it. “That little snot. He's going to get himself killed! What about the blond, JJ? Wasn't she supposed to be with him?”

Sam shrugged. He and Dean hurried out of the men's washroom and made a beeline for the elevator. “I guess she turned her back for a second and he slipped out. He's on a bus to the MacDonnell house right now.”

“I'll kill him myself,” Dean muttered, punching the call button for the elevator.

“Calm down,” Sam advised. “He said he wasn't planning on confronting anyone or going inside until he had backup.”

“Well that's something, at least,” Dean said. He did not sound even a bit mollified. Sam could not find it in himself to blame his brother. This was just the sort of idiot move that would get people killed, usually the people who least deserved it.

“Hopefully we'll get there before someone does something stupid.”

“We'd better,” Dean growled. The elevator chimes and the doors opened. The Winchesters entered the lift with three other people. They fell into a reserved silence, sparing only bare nods of greeting to the legitimate FBI that stood ignorant around them.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really badly written fight scene. Sorry.

Spencer got off the bus three streets away from the MacDonnell house. He had his backpack with him and made certain to stick close to – but out of immediate sight of – a young family of three. He hitched his backpack up on his little shoulders and checked the map on his phone as the bus drove away. The young family wandered off up the street unaware that they had gained a temporary little tag along. When the bus turned the corner Spencer reversed his course and trotted away from the family. It was the middle of the day and there were not very many people home – statistically speaking. For Spencer that was a good thing. Less people about to notice a stray four year old boy wandering around without an adult guardian of some kind.

Apprehension crept into Spencer's mind. Was he doing the smart thing? Probably not. Sam sounded furious on the phone when Spencer had told him what he was doing. Furious and worried, if Spencer had heard him correctly. Everything that Spencer had read about demons told him he should be running in the other direction, not seeking them out. But, that was his job. He had spent _years_ of his life hunting down the worst that humanity had to offer, immersing himself in the workings of their minds and surrounding himself with the evidence of their efforts in order to better track them down and bring them to justice. Demons were just another bud guy, albeit with scary superpowers. Maybe this really wasn't a smart plan.

Slowing down, Spencer checked where he was relative to the MacDonnell house on his phone. He was still a street away. Indecision gripped Spencer. He trusted Sam and Dean's judgment when it came to supernatural problems. They were, essentially, the experts in the field, after all. To hear Garth talk about them they were almost god-like in their ability to fight the Forces of Darkness, as Garth referred to them. Garth was a little over the top sometimes, but he was also honest and plainspoken. Spencer appreciated that about him.

Glancing around, Spencer looked for somewhere he could duck out of sight. There weren't many obvious options. Suddenly unhappy, Spencer stared down at the phone in his hand. It looked ridiculously large compared to what he was used to perceiving. Oversized to his undersized self. He called Sam.

 _“Spencer?”_ Sam said, _“Tell me you're nowhere near the MacDonnell's.”_

“I'm just a street away,” Spencer admitted. “I'm not going to confront anyone, I'm not stupid.”

 _“No one's saying you are,”_ Sam tried to say comfortingly. In the background Spencer could hear Dean say _“yes we are!”_ Sam growls and tells Dean to shut up. _“Just stay out of sight. We're... we're half an hour away. Hotch and Rossi are on their way too. And JJ said that she'll never forgive you if you get yourself hurt in any way.”_

That made Spencer smile fondly. He felt bad for slipping away from JJ, for making her worry. She had gone into the kitchen to make something to eat, leaving him in the back yard where they had been chatting – talking about his _options_. Spencer was starting to hate that word. Four year olds didn't have many _options_ , it was humiliating to even pretend that he did. The only option he had was to be remanded into the custody of an adult. Who that adult would be was the only variable.

It was utterly depressing.

“I'm waiting,” Spencer assured Sam with an unconscious sigh. “I'm just gonna find somewhere where I can watch the house.”

 _“No. Just stay away. Stay out of sight,”_ Sam directed firmly. Spencer frowned.

“I'm working on it,” he said, getting a little irritated. “Stop worry about me. I only _look_ four, I'm not really. Remember that.”

 _“Maybe, but you really are that small, you really do look that young, and you really_ don't _have any of the advantages that you're used to. Remember that. You're working with a handicap._ Let us do our job _.”_ Sam sounded stressed.

“I am,” Spencer protested.

 _“Dude,”_ Sam exclaimed, _“How do you like it when the local PD gets it into their head that they can take on the psychopath with no backup? You and your team aren't_ trained _for this sort of thing.”_

“I'm not going to confront him!”

_“Good. Don't. Just wait for us. If Hotch and Rossi get there first, don't let them do anything either. We don't need any of you guys getting killed, you hear?”_

“Got it,” Spencer said. He ended the call feeling chastised and irritated. He slipped the phone into his backpack and continued down the street. He would wait, but he would be waiting in sight of the MacDonnell's house.

 

*

 

Hotch's phone rang a second time during his meeting with the Director of the FBI. He frowned – his _boss_ frowned – but he checked the caller ID. The name was withheld but he recognized the number. Dread curled in the pit of his stomach. He had just spoken with the Winchesters, why would they be calling back when they knew he was busy? He excused himself with distracted apology and took the call in the corridor.

He answered with a curt “What is it, Winchester?”

 _“Your boy Spencer has gone AWOL,”_ Dean said, just as curtly. _“He's on his way to the MacDonnell's on his own. Just thought you might want to know.”_

Hotch repressed the sudden urge to swear fluently, to tear at his hair, to ask why _this_ was his life. Instead his pressed his fingers into the bridge of his nose and took several deep breaths. “Right. I assume you're _en route_ to his position now?”

_“You bet we are.”_

“I'll meet you there.”

 _“Bring your agents,”_ Dean suggested. _“Whichever ones can come.”_

“I'll call JJ and let her know. Rossi and I will meet you there.”

_“Drive quick, Agent. MacDonnell works from home.”_

Hotch hung up with a silent growl. He made his excuses to the Director, already dialing Rossi's number, and hurried for the elevator.

Seriously, this was just not turning out to be a good day.

 

*

 

JJ hated herself. She had never lost Henri before and had been confident that Spencer, as an adult in mind, would respect her enough not to try and give her the slip to go off and do... _whatever_. Apparently she had been wrong. Spencer had slipped out of the house when she had gone into the kitchen to get something for them to eat. She was going to kill him when she found him. Hug him, then kill him. Oh, how was she going to explain this!

Her phone beeped with a text alert. It was from Spencer. _I'm alive, well, and safe. Don't worry. Sorry for leaving. Have something I need to do. I'll call later._

Nope. She was just going to kill him. Spencer was dead, so _very_ dead.

 

*

 

Spencer found a yard with a Frisbee and a bike in front of the house. Allowing himself to assume that there was a child living in the house, which was fortuitous since it would help as a cover, he situated himself between two flowering bushes, mostly hidden from view, and settled down to wait. He pulled out his phone and texted Penelope, asking how Derek was doing. The conversation was constant enough that to the casual observer Spencer looked as if he were playing a game on his phone, which was, he thought, more likely for a four year old boy than texting a FBI tech-goddess.

Between incoming messages Spencer kept a wary eye on the MacDonnell's home. One of the two cars was gone – not surprising since Judith had driven herself to the BAU's office. The second car sat parked out in the drive rather than inside the garage. It would be reasonable to presume that Conner MacDonnell was at home even though he had not seen any movement inside.

Never assume. That could get someone killed, Spencer reminded himself sternly.

Penelope kept him updated on Derek's condition. Apparently the hex Judith had laid on him had done damage to his esophagus and stomach. It was bad, but not as horrible as they had feared. The doctors hopefully informed Derek and Penelope that he might be back to normal in a few weeks if he was careful. He wouldn't be able to eat properly for the first few days – maybe even for the first week – and would be restricted in what he could take orally. They would keep him in the hospital for that time so that they would be able to administer nutrients intravenously. According to Penelope the doctors had put Derek on some pretty persuasive painkillers that had knocked him out cold, so he wasn't yet complaining about his lot. This fact both worried and reassured Spencer. Worried, because it meant that the extent of the internal damage done to Derek was enough to concern professionals, and reassured because at least he was still alive with a hopeful prognosis.

Spencer never would have forgiven himself for getting his friends involved with witches, for telling them about the supernatural, if one of them got seriously injured because of that introduction.

A car drove down the street. Spencer shrunk a little further into the bushed and watched it pass by. The driver didn't even glance his way, which relieved Spencer. He checked the time on his phone. Everyone should be arriving soon, he realized. For some reason the thought ratcheted up Spencer's worry and the tense vice of anticipation that gripped him tightened.

One way or another, something important was going to happen very soon.

 

*

 

Sam pulled over and parked the rental car two houses down from the MacDonnell's. Both he and Dean double checked to make certain that they had their weapons even as they got out of the car. Dean adjusted his suit jacket. Sam brushed something off his sleeve. They both scanned the area, looking for Spencer. Dean spotted him first as Spencer crawled out from under a flowering hedge that grew directly against a house not far off and across the street.

“There he is,” Dean said, nodding toward Spencer. Sam turned and they both watched as Spencer checked the street up and down before trotting across, making a beeline for them.

“I stayed away,” was the first thing he said to them.

“Good. Thank you,” Sam said.

“If I asked you to wait in the car, would you?” Dean asked.

Spencer glowered at him and shook his head sharply. “Not a chance,” he declared. “I want to see this finished. I... I _need_ to see this finished.”

Sam and Dean shared a look. “I don't like it,” Dean admitted sourly.

“See, Spencer, the problem is that you're _really small_ right now,” Sam said.

“I know that!” Spencer erupted. “It doesn't mean I'm useless! I'm still _me_!”

Sam held up his hands. “We know that,” he said gently. “It's just that _because_ you're so little right now it's making us _and_ your friends very nervous having you around anything dangerous. Even if you aren't a little kid _you still look it_. It's messing with our heads.”

“Amen,” Dean agreed under his breath.

“You think it's not messing with me too?” Spencer asked. “I _know_ that I should be able to go in there with everyone else and at the same time I _know_ that I can't. It's so frustrating, you have no idea.” He stamped a little foot, then was mortified at the childish outburst. He covered his face with his hands and groaned dramatically.

“I get it, Spencer, I really do,” Sam told him earnestly. “But there's no shame in being benched every once in a while.”

“Sure there is,” Spencer grumbled. “It's just that no one wants to say so.”

“Way to think positive,” Dean said with a heavy sigh. He crouched down in front of Spencer. “Look, you haven't had a lot of time to adjust to this curse. You're littler than you have been in decades. All of your fancy FBI training was for when you were much taller and heavier – and that makes a difference, so don't even think about trying to kid yourself. We don't know how this is going to go down and none of us – Me, Sam, all of your FBI buds – _none_ of us want to see you get hurt. And yeah, it's probably because you're so little right now. Like Sam said: it's messing with our heads. But you gotta make some allowances for us. Can you do that?”

Before Spencer could open his mouth to answer Hotch's big, black, FBI-issue SUV pulled up behind Sam and Dean's little silver rental. Spencer nervously clutched the front of his shirt as he waited for his boss and senior coworker to approach. Both were glowering at Spencer as they exited the SUV. Spencer shrunk a little.

“I didn't confront anyone,” he defended himself hotly. “And I wasn't noticed either.”

“This was a foolish thing to do, Reid, and you know it,” Hotch admonished him sternly. “Any number of things could have happened to you.”

“I take it you two have just arrived,” Rossi observed, glancing between Dean and Sam.

“Just a minute before you,” Sam told him.

“I was just about to handcuff Spencer to the inside of the car,” Dean said sourly.

“Hey!” Spencer protested, “That’s child abuse!”

“Oh, _now_ you claim to be a child!” Dean threw up his hands.

Spencer scowled at him. “No, I'm not claiming to be a child, but it would certainly look like it to an outside perspective, as you’ve insisted _so often_.”

“Don't tempt me.”

“Dean, calm down,” Sam said, resting a hand on his brother's shoulder. “No one's handcuffing anyone to anything just right now.”

“Might lock him in, though,” Rossi said, staring down at Spencer with an eyebrow raised pointedly. “We got child locks.”

Spencer turned betrayed eyes on his friends, who all looked like they were seriously considering the option. Hotch just shook his head. He looked like he was getting a headache right between his eyes. Guilt rose up in Spencer again. Wilting a little he looked away and chewed on his lower lip.

“I'm not planning on doing anything foolish,” he said.

“Too late,” Sam muttered, quietly enough that he obviously hadn't intended on being overheard. He shook his head, not apologizing. “So, about the demon.”

“How do you two normally go about this?” Rossi asked.

Sam and Dean shared a look. Dean offered an answer. “Usually? We'd lure it out to somewhere where we'd laid down a Devil's Trap, and _then_ we'd exorcise it.”

“Doing an exorcism on the fly can get pretty messy,” Sam added. “Violent, really. Demons don't particularly like getting evicted.”

“How violent?” Hotch asked.

Dean shrugged. “It's not uncommon for them to toss you around into walls, pin you in place with their evil-demon powers while they take the time to suffocate you by hand, stuff like that. Can you see why we don't want you in the middle of that, Spencer?”

Spencer grimaced. “I understand,” he admitted. “I want to go on the record and say that I don't like being benched, though.”

“I don't blame you,” Dean told him. “But will you stay out of the way? If Conner MacDonnell _is_ the demon then this is probably going to get messy.”

“And we really don't want to go into a fight worrying that you're going to get hurt,” Sam admitted awkwardly but unapologetically.

Spencer nodded. Shamefaced, he admitted “I'd forgotten about Devil's Traps.”

“Devil's Traps do make dealing with demons easier,” Dean commented idly.

“I get it, I get it,” Spencer complained. “I messed up.”

“Yes, you did,” Rossi agreed mildly. “But we're all here now. Do we know if Conner MacDonnell is home right now?”

“His car is in the driveway,” Spencer offered. “I haven't seen him go anywhere, but I also haven't seen any movement inside the house, so I can't really say for sure whether he is or isn't. Sorry.”

Rossi shrugged. “It's easy enough to check,” he said. “We'll just knock on the front door.”

“And deal with the rest however it falls out,” Dean agreed with a reluctant sigh.

No one was happy with it. Sam and Dean had visions of getting thrown through walls and glass and generally getting beaten and bruised. Hotch and Rossi were more worried about the less fantastic means to be damaged – they didn't quite believe yet that there were things out there that could and would lift someone about with their brain and toss them around. They had yet to witness such a feat, so it wasn't something that seemed real.

“Guess we're playing this one by ear,” Rossi sighed, shaking his head.

“We'll go in first,”Hotch told the Winchesters. “At least our credentials are genuine.”

Dean, who had been about to protest, was brought up short. He grimaced and nodded. Hotch was right, after all. He and Sam hadn't been able to update their FBI badges since they got told off at how they weren't accurate. Thank goodness that guy had thought they were just dressed up in costume to cosplay at the convention and not actually impersonating FBI agents. That had been awkward enough being told off by a skinny little man dressed up in a bard's costume.

“Reid, I want you to stay in the car,” Hotch told the shortest member of their group. “This is not a request. I want you to stay in the car with the doors locked. Do you understand?”

Spencer scowled and nodded. He clambered into the back of the black SUV and engaged the locks on the doors. Satisfied that Spencer was out of immediate harm's way Hotch headed the group as they walked up the street and approached the MacDonnell home.

Hotch rang the doorbell. Dean and Sam hung back a little, letting the legitimate FBI agents take the initial lead. Conner MacDonnell opened the door for them. He glanced between the four men in suits curiously.

“Yes?” he asked. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Mr. MacDonnell,” said Hotch, “We have a few more questions that we were hoping that you would be able to help us with. May we come inside?”

Conner studied them for a long moment before he stepped aside, frowning. Hotch thanked him and walked into the house. They were let into the living room where everyone took a seat. Drinks were offered and politely refused.

“So, what is this all about, Agents?” Conner asked. “And why so many of you?”

“We'll get to that,” Hotch said. “First things first.”

Sam pretended to sneeze. _“Christo.”_

The entirety of Conner's eyes changed to purest black in that moment, and as his eyes reflected the pits of Hell his entire demeanor shifted as well. Hotch and Rossi jerked back. Neither had truly expected that reaction in spite of being warned beforehand. Sam and Dean, however, had expected exactly that reaction from Conner. Sam pulled out a luridly bright orange and green water gun and pointed it at the demon. Conner grinned toothily at them, leaning forward over his knees.

“Hunters,” he said, his eyes still black. “I don't know why I'm surprised.”

“Couldn't really say,” Dean quipped as he pulled the demon-killing knife and held it easily in front of himself. “Could be because you're a cocky little piece of hell-scum. Could also be because you're stupid. Take your pick. Either way we're going to send you straight back to the pit.”

“And you're saying that _I'm_ the cocky one,” Conner laughed. It was not a pleasant sound to hear.

“You two might want to get out of the way,” Sam suggested to Hotch and Rossi.

Conner shot an open hand in their direction. “I think not,” he said, pinning them in place on the sofa without even touching them. Their alarm ratcheted up visibly as they struggled against invisible bonds to no avail. Sam and Dean spared them only a brief glance, their attention locked onto the demon. Sam held his water gun level with the demon's head and glowered.

“Why'd you do it, Conner?” he asked. The demon raised an eyebrow at him. He elaborated. “Elaine Burke. Why did you kill her?”

“Elaine? Why would you think that _I_ killed that pathetic woman?”

“You mean aside from the hex bag with your fingerprints all over it, the sulfur, the general _skeeziness_ of the whole thing?” Dean asked. “Gee, I don't know what could have given us that idea.”

“Hoo, you boys have done some research, haven't you?” The demon shot Dean an amused, sideways glance. “And you, what a _mouth_ you have on you. I think I'd like to play with that. Maybe I'll start by ripping it off.”

“Better demons than you have tried,” Dean taunted. “I'm still up and kicking, so it looks like you and your kind just ain't all that. _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus –_ ”

The demon scowled, baring his teeth. He flung his other hand out in Dean's direction and a lamp flew at Dean's head. Sam fired his water gun. The demon screamed, flinched away violently, rocking back over the chair it had been sitting on. It lost its grip on Hotch and Rossi and the two drew their guns and backed out of the way.

Sam picked up where Dean had been cut off. “ _Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, –_ ”

“Stop it!” screamed Conner wrathfully. “You miserable little sacks of meat!” He gestured wildly and the coffee table upended and sailed toward them. Sam threw up his arms to protect his head and chest but was knocked back into a wall. Conner got to his feet and started advancing on them. Hotch and Rossi fired their weapons. It made no difference.

Dean, still shaking off getting a lamp to the head and wondering when he had dropped his knife, continued the rite. “ _Omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica..._ ” Conner doubled over in pain. Dean pressed onward. “ _Ergo, draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica, adjuramus te ..._ ”

This time it was an end table that clipped Dean’s head. He dropped, senseless, to the floor.

“Dean!” Sam exclaimed wildly.

The demon paused. “Don't tell me that you two are the _Winchesters_ ,” it said. Glee spread across its face in a terrible expression. “Little Sam and Dean Winchester. In my house. Who would have thought it? Think Crowley would mind if I killed his pet hunters? You can never tell with him. One week it’s 'hands off' and the next it's open season. I think I'll take my chances.”

“You've heard of them?” Hotch asked, trying to buy a little time.

“Oh, infant, _everyone_ has heard of these two jokers,” the demon sneered. “The things that they get up to. Starting _and_ ending the apocalypse? They have more travel miles between this world, Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven than anyone else in history. Killing you will be quite the notch on my belt.”

Sam glared at him. “ _Cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque æternæ perditionìs venenum propinare..._ ” he said, taking up the exorcism from where it had been cut off. The demon snarled and sent him flying sideways into the windows. Sam landed in a deluge of glass shard in the front lawn.

That left Hotch and Rossi to face the demon. They held their guns uncertainly. They had been told that bullets would be useless against a demon, but shooting one and seeing it not be even fazed by the assault was mentally rattling. At a loss as to what they could possibly do, their training kicked in even before they themselves realized. Hotch ducked behind the sofa while Rossi twisted into the corridor.

“Oh, my little cockroaches,” teased Conner. “You can try to run if you want to, but you're going to die anyways. Maybe after I've played with the Winchesters a bit more, maybe I'll play with you then. Doesn't that sound like fun?”

Hotch glanced over to where Dean was lying on the floor. He was heartened to see that Dean was moving, slowly and a little bit drunkenly as he came to. The demon stalked over to the broken window and leaned out. Hotch shifted out of view.

“Oh, little Sammy Winchester,” Conner sang as he climbed over the sill, glass crunching underfoot. He jumped out onto the lawn. Hotch and Rossi could hear a quiet grunt, then Sam was tossed back inside. He crashed into the chesterfield and an end table that held up a potted flower. The flower pot and the end table shattered under his weight. Sam cursed and tried to get to his hands and knees. Conner leapt back inside, took one look at Sam's attempts to get to his feet, and leveled a kick at Sam's ribs.

“Stay down, little Winchester,” Conner advised. “When I want you to move, I'll let you know. Now, where should I start first?” He reached down and dragged Dean up by his throat. Dean grunted, trying to breath around the fingers that dug into him and cut off air and blood. He clawed uselessly at the hand. Conner laughed at his attempts, mocking him, and then he tossed Dean casually into a wall. Dean hit the wall hard, cracking the drywall and knocking photographs off their hooks.

Hotch caught slight of Rossi and the two exchanged silent queries as to what they should do. Neither had any idea what they could do. Dean and Sam had told them about demons, had given them brief instruction on the exorcism and a photocopy of a Devil's Trap, but neither had either the rite or the trap memorized. Hotch spied Sam's holy water gun. He gestured covertly to where it lay, closer to Rossi than himself. Rossi glanced towards it, then back at Hotch and nodded. Steeling himself and adjusting his grip on his handgun, Hotch took a deep breath. Together, silent as a thought, they counted down from three.

Two.

Hotch took aim and fired at Conner, doing hardly anything more that throwing him off balance and catching his full attention. Rossi took advantage of the distraction and dove for the holy water gun. As Conner advanced menacingly on Hotch, Rossi rolled to his feet and fired the water gun at Conner's face. Screaming in rage and pain, Conner reeled back, just as he had earlier when Sam had hit him with the holy water.

“Stop that!”

Not wanting to waste the small amount of holy water in the toy pistol, Rossi waited his next volley. He crept closer to Dean and, keeping the water gun leveled at Conner, reached down and helped the hunter to his feet. Dean scrabbled at the floor for a moment and scooped something up before standing.

Hotch, also keeping his gun level to Conner's centre mass, pulled a wheezing Sam up and away. “Are you alright?” he asked, concerned.

“I'll be fine,” Sam said, getting his breath. He wrapped an arm around his ribs, ribs that felt bruised at least, probably cracked, from the kick. “Dean, you okay?”

“Fine,” Dean bit out, blinking hard, trying to get his eyes to see straight. “You?”

“I'll live. Agents, you two should think about running,” Sam advised.

“And leave you two to get yourselves killed?” Rossi asked sarcastically.

“Sam, catch!” Dean said, tossing the demon-killing knife to his brother. Sam caught it deftly by the hilt. Dean reached into his jacket and pulled out his stolen angel-blade. “I don't know about you, but this guy is getting kinda annoying. Don't you think?”

“That's one way to look at it,” Sam said grimly.

Conner righted himself, carefully standing out of range of the holy water gun. He glowered at the men before him. “I'm disappointed. _These_ are the mighty Winchesters?”

“Shut your pie-hole,” Dean snapped. He lunged forward, slashing tightly with the angle-blade. Conner jumped back and spun out of the way. Sam added his own weight to the fight. Hotch and Rossi backed away, not wanting to become collateral damage.

Somebody hissed behind them, catching their attention.

 

*

 

Spencer almost jumped out of his skin when he heard and saw Sam fly unwillingly through the front window. He pressed himself against the window, trying to get a better look, his heart racing. His finger fumbled with the latch for the door, slipping more than once in his shock and haste. When he saw Conner follow Sam out the window – in a much more controlled manner than Sam's unwilling and forcibly assisted exodus – he froze, much like a rabbit trying to escape the notice of a large predator and its very sharp teeth. Watching Conner pick up and single-handedly _throw_ Sam back inside jump started Sam back into motion. He managed to get the door open after Conner hopped back inside the house.

Spencer slipped out of the SUV, his little child-sized sneakers hitting the cement of the sidewalk with hardly a sound to speak of. He couldn't recall if he pushed the door closed after he got out. The need to help out in what was, from what he could tell, a situation where nothing was going right – his fault – was more than the need to see the SUV properly locked up. Priorities: he had them.

He ignored the front door, opting to try the back door that let into the kitchen. If the fighting was taking place in the front of the house, Spencer wanted to be as far away from it as he could while still being close enough to be useful. The gate that separated the front lawn from the back yard gave him a little difficulty. Spencer had to skirt into the neighbour's yard, then crawl through the hedge of box cedars, which bypassed the troublesome gate entirely – a security chink that that was just large enough for a child his size.

Being small made it easy to hide. He dashed unseen across the yard and tried the doorknob. It was locked. Cursing in language not meant to even be heard by children's ears much less issue from the mouth of one, Spencer swung his backpack off his shoulders and tore it open. He fished out a tiny pocket knife, hardly more than two inches long with a impractically slender blade. Picking locks was hard to do with only a knife. It took several minutes and even more false starts before he could turn the handle and let himself into the MacDonnell's house. The interim was filled with the alarming sounds of fighting, gunfire, and screams. Spencer was having a terrible time keeping himself calm enough that his hands wouldn't shake, so he would be able to keep his grip on the little pocketknife.

The MacDonnell kitchen was tidy. Either Clair or Conner seemed to be decent housekeeper. All the surfaces were clear of clutter and the only food left out was a decorative bowl that held several different kinds of fruits. Spencer quickly scanned the room and found it, blessedly, free from all contenders in the battle that was going down not far away. Spencer found a Sharpie in his backpack and peered down the hall. There was no one there. Spying a smallish throw rug Spencer put his half-baked plan into motion. He dropped to his knees and, unashamed at the damage, started drawing on the hardwood floorboards. The memory of the sketch that Sam and Dean had showed him days ago swam fresh in his mind's eye and he did his best to replicate it on the floor with his limited artistic abilities. He had been passable as an adult – nothing to talk about but a step or two above just being able to draw stick figures – but his manual dexterity as a child had hampered that.

Hampered, but not destroyed. Spencer sat back on his heels and examined his work. Satisfied, he dragged the throw rug over the Devil's Trap and went in search of the fighters.

 

*

 

“Reid, what are you doing here?” Hotch hissed. His scowl was more lethal than Spencer had ever witnessed before.

“That's not important, Hotch,” Spencer insisted. He motioned for them to follow him. With Sam and Dean effectively distracting Conner, Hotch and Rossi slipped out of the war-zone of a living room and down the hall so Spencer could show them what he had set up.

Understanding, Rossi said, “Now we just have to get Conner over here so we can trap him. Well done, kid.”

“But therein lies the problem: how do we get Conner _here_?” Hotch asked.

Spencer shrugged. “Leave it to Sam and Dean,” he suggested. Then he darted away, back towards the living room. Hotch and Rossi cursed and followed, intent on stopping him before he did something that would get him killed. They were just slow enough that Spencer skidded into the living room before they could catch him.

The cursed FBI profiler skidded to a halt and took in the situation. Sam and Dean were still trying to exorcise the Demon from Conner's body, but the demon wasted no time in cutting off their incantations. The haphazard stop-and-start back-and-forth incanting was confusing even for the Winchesters who seemed to have the rite memorized inside out and backwards and they had to start over more than once. Currently, Dean was in close quarters with Conner, fighting against the grip Conner hand on his one good arm to get the angel-blade close enough to do damage. Sam was getting to his feet where he had been thrown. Spencer dashed towards Sam.

“Can you get him into the kitchen?” he asked, foregoing any niceties in favour of brevity.

“What?” Sam asked, goggling at Spencer for a moment.

“The kitchen. Can you get him there? I set up a Trap under a rug. Can you get Conner into the kitchen?” Spencer explained, darting nervous glances toward the fight. Dean was red in the face and Conner was snarling.

“You got a Trap drawn?” Sam asked, visibly relived. “Yeah. We'll get him there. Where in the kitchen?”

“Between the sink and the island. I put a throw rug over top of it so hopefully he won't notice it until it's too late,” Spencer said.

Sam approved. “Good thinking. Now, get out of sight. Let us handle this.”

Spencer nodded and scrambled back towards Hotch and Rossi. They hurried him away, urging him to go upstairs where it would be immediately safer for him to be. Spencer went, because it was prudent, would take a load of worry from _everyone's_ minds, and because he could camp out at the top and keep an eye on how things were progressing. It was much, _much_ better than being exiled to the car.

Still, it kind of made him feel like he was waiting up for a very violent Santa Claus. Just for a moment. A very brief moment.

Demon Claus.

Spencer shook his head and hunkered down at the top of the stairs.

The sounds of fighting moved haphazardly away from the living room. Spencer was blinded by dint of his location, but experience informed him that Sam was doing what he could and was somehow herding Conner in the direction of the kitchen. However they were doing it, it was effective and Spencer was impressed.

Spencer's attention jerked to the front door, which was opening very carefully. The barest hint of the corner of an outline could be seen through the frosted and cut glass. A standard-issue 9mm handgun preceded the entrant into the foyer. It was JJ. Spencer hissed and waved his hands wildly. She glanced up in his direction and frowned at him. He beckoned to her. With a quick, professionally analyzing glance toward the raucous fight that had actually made it to the kitchen, she darted up the stairs.

“Don't think I'm not mad at you,” was what she started with. Spencer nodded. He would be mad too. “What's going on? Fill me in.”

“Dean and Sam are fighting Conner – who _is_ possessed by a demon. I managed to draw a Devil's Trap on the kitchen floor. They're luring him there now. Hotch and Rossi are hanging back since guns _don't work_ on demons. You might as well put that away. You'd slow him down more with hand-to-hand than bullets, but I wouldn't recommend it.”

The sounds of fighting stopped. Conner started screaming profanities, hurling curses at Sam and Dean. JJ and Spencer both moved down the stairs a little to look over the banister and down the hall. They could see Rossi and Sam in the doorway.

“It's safe to come out now,” Sam called. He was wiping away blood that was getting into an eye. “You did a good job on the trap. It's holding like a charm.”

Spencer dashed down the stairs, JJ not far behind. He slowed down to a hesitant walk before entering the kitchen, glancing over everyone – and keeping a wary eye on the spitting-mad Conner. JJ stood close by, resting a hand unconsciously on the side of his head, lightly pressing him closer to her side.

“Conner MacDonnell?” JJ asked.

Dean shook his head. “Not any more. This here's a demon. Conner's probably dead. If he wasn't before, then he will be after we exorcise this Hell-sucker.”

“Why's that?” Hotch asked, frowning at Dean.

“You shot him,” Sam pointed out. “Centre mass. The demon's the only thing keeping him alive at the moment.”

“Alive, is a relative term,” Dean scoffed. “He's walking and talking, but Conner's not home any more and probably hasn't been for months. Best thing we can do is get rid of the hitchhiker inside him. Any more questions or can we get the show on the road. I don’t know about you, but I'm kinda getting sick of him. How about you, Sammy?”

Sam shrugged. “He certainly likes to talk, and about nothing interesting too. You guys ready to watch your first real exorcism?”

“Let's see if we can't get some information out of him first,” Rossi suggested, he casually raised the holy water gun again.

“What do you want to know?” Dean asked him.

“Did you kill Elaine Burke?” Rossi asked Conner.

“He already said he did,” Dean reminded him.

Conner shot Rossi a sadistic grin. “Why are you so hung up on that pathetic woman?” he asked instead of answering.

“Answer the nice FBI agent,” Sam advised. “Or he just might shoot you again.”

“You're planning on sending me back to the Pit anyways,” Conner pointed out. “Where's the advantage to me if I talk?”

Dean shrugged and played with the silver angel-blade. “We won't kill you dead if you talk,” he suggested. “Sounds like a good deal, if you ask me.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Sam agreed, also toying pointedly with the demon-killing knife. “After all, the only reason we didn't kill you earlier was because these good agents want some answers. Now get talking.”

Conner glowered. He cursed. He spat Dean (who was closest) in the face. Rossi shot him with the holy water for that. Yowling he rocked back into the invisible wall created by the Devil's Trap. JJ flinched back, exclaiming in surprise.

“What just happened?” she demanded, tightening her hold on Spencer.

“Devil's Trap,” Sam explained. “It keeps demons contained.”

“They told us about them when they came over for dinner, if you'll recall” Spencer reminded her.

JJ just stared at the trapped Conner. “Yeah, but...” she trailed off uncertainly.

“Didn't actually believe us?” Dean asked her. “Don't blame you. It's crazy stuff, this. Now, answer the question: are you the one that killed Elaine Burke?”

“Keeping in mind that if you don't answer our friend over here will just keep shooting you with the holy water,” Sam told him.

Conner eyed the lurid green and orange water pistol and sneered. “That's not going to last forever.”

Dean shrugged. “Doesn't matter. We got a tap right here, a rosary, and the ability to bless some more. We can go all day, all night, and well into next week if you want.”

“Torture?” Hotch asked.

Dean raised an eyebrow at him. “He's not human, Agent. The Geneva Convention doesn't apply here. And he'd do worse to you given less than half a chance. Did you kill her? Last time I'm going to ask nicely.”

Conner stared hard at Dean. Then he shrugged. “If I'd known when I offed her that killing her would bring hunters into town I would have just left her alone. One of the others would have taken care of her eventually, I'd wager.”

“Why'd you do it?” Hotch asked.

“Because what she was doing brought you lot sniffing around. This kind of gig ain't exactly crossroads-wonderful, you know. It's work, investment, and with only a handful of humans. Do you know how _embarrassing_ it is to get caught out doing something as slim-pickings as this?”

Sam and Dean shared a glance, rolling their eyes. “You have our utmost sympathy,” Sam said insincerely. “Do you need anything else from him?”

“Does he know a way to uncurse me?” Spencer asked after a moment when no one else spoke up.

Conner blinked down at Spencer. He had to crane a bit to look over the kitchen island to see him. “You brought a kid along?” he asked, momentarily stunned.

“Not a kid. I've been cursed this way,” Spencer snapped. “I _should_ be a fully grown adult. _Elaine_ cursed me like this. _Can you fix it_?”

Conner grinned. “Even if I could, I wouldn't. This is hilarious. The old girl actually did something amusing. Good for her. Hope you have fun growing up again.”

Spencer muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath. He turns to Sam. “That's all I wanted to know.”

“Great. Let's get rid of him. Any objections?” There were none. Sam nodded and recited the exorcism. _"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica... Ergo, draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica, adjuramus te ... cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque æternæ perditionìs venenum propinare... Vade, satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciæ, hostis humanæ salutis... Humiliare sub potenti manu Dei; contremisce et effuge, invocato a nobis sancto et terribili nomine... quem inferi tremunt... Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine. Ut Ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos."_

Conner, screaming in rage and pain, threw his head back. Light-devouring black smoke erupted from his open mouth and sunk into the floorboards, heading toward the Pit as the demon was evicted from its host and from the mortal plane. Everyone but Sam and Dean moved away from the display. Conner's body collapsed, a puppet with cut strings. Dean dropped to one knee beside the body and checked for a pulse.

“Dead. For how long, couldn't say,” he announced. “Demons tend to ride their vessels pretty hard. Not many survive and those that do... really wish they hadn't. Sorry Agents.”

Hotch shook his head. “We're going to have to call this in,” he said.

“You're also going to have to find some way to explain this away,” Dean pointed out.

“We'll figure something out. Just leave it to us.”

Rossi regarded the Winchesters. “What are your plans now that this is over?”

Dean glanced over at Spencer, who was curling in on himself a little. He shared a look with Sam. “I'm thinking we're going to stick around for a few days. See if we can't find something that might help Spencer out – magically, or even just practically if it comes down to it.”

“If you want us to, that is,” Sam added, looking earnestly at Spencer.

Spencer managed a smile. “That might actually be helpful,” he told them. “Thanks.”

“And we need to get my baby back,” Dean pointed out after a moment. “Think you can manage to get her released to me? Or do Sammy and I have to... get her ourselves?”

All the FBI (the tall ones, not Spencer, since he already suspected the answer) stared at Dean. Sam sighed. Rossi was the one to actually ask the question buzzing about in the air. “You car was all but totaled. It's not drivable anymore. _Why_ do you want it back?”

Dean looked uncomfortable, mulish. Sam looked at his brother with hardly veiled sympathy. He waited for Dean to answer.

“Dad gave her to me,” Dean told them. The words were loaded with volumes unsaid. “I can fix the damage. I've fixed her up before from worse.”

“Can you get it released to us?” Sam asked Hotch.

Hotch eyed the brothers before nodding once. “I'll see what I can do,” he told them.

“Thanks,” Dean said. He then heaved a sigh and tucked the angel-blade away and out of sight. Sam did the same with the demon-killing knife. Rossi handed the holy water gun back.

“Well, we really should get going. You don't want an official report with our faces attached to it,” Sam said.

JJ snorted. “You got that right. It would be _impossible_ to explain away.”

“Let's not even try,” Rossi suggested. “Tell you what: come to dinner at my place. I'll cook. We can all talk there. Sound good?”

Dean and Sam accepted. With a final glance towards the corpse of Conner MacDonnell, Dean and Sam made themselves scarce. The less they had to do with anything the FBI documented, the better for everyone all around.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

They ended up going to a hospital since Conner had cracked open Dean's cast and even Dean agreed that it would be prudent (he didn't use that word, Sam did) to have it checked over by a professional and reset. While they were there Sam got his ribs looked at and taped up. The rest of their injuries were tended to while they flashed their FBI badges to explain away why they weren't explaining how they got so beaten up in the first place. Dean whined and complained throughout the whole process, pausing only to smile flirtatiously at the cute nurses and doctors. Sam just shook his head at his brother's antics, thanked the nurses and doctors ( _all_ of them), and told Dean to shut up.

It turned out that Conner had broken Dean's forearm in another place as well as unset the two fractures from the car accident. Dean complained about that. He muttered to Sam – away from the hearing of the medical personnel – that they should have taken a little more time with Conner before exorcising him. Sam patted him on the back and herded him out of the hospital. This time they left with prescriptions for the both of them.

 

*

 

In another hospital, an hour later, both still looking a little pale and bruised, Sam and Dean let themselves into the small ward room where they had been informed Derek was. Penelope sat in a chair beside the bed, reading a paperback copy of Return of the King. She looked up when they approached.

“How's he doing?” Dean asked, stopping at the food of Derek's bed. Sam just picked up the chart and nosily started reading.

“Is it done?” Penelope asked in return. She looked drawn, stressed and worried. Dean waved his new cast at her.

“Done and done,” he told her. “The demon's been exorcised and the witches' have been declawed.”

“Good.” She set the book down in her lap, keeping her place with her thumb between the pages. “So... there's nothing to worry about now?”

“Well, that's a matter of opinion,” Dean told her. He gingerly dragged another chair over and settled down into its uncomfortable embrace. “Spencer's still little. There's something to worry about. You guys have to explain away a series of magically killed victims, how Judith managed to shred Derek's insides, and why Conner MacDonnell is now a corpse.”

“Why...?” she asked. Horror and suspicion crossed her face. “Was he really?”

“He was possessed, like Spencer and you figured,” Sam confirmed. “Hotch and Rossi shot at him when he turned violent. Whether that killed Conner or not, we won't know.”

“It wasn't the... the exorcism?”

Dean shook his head. “Doesn't work like that. But demons, you gotta understand, don't really take care of their vessels. They can keep a vessel up and walking around after going through nearly anything. That doesn't mean that the vessel is in any kind of good condition, though. Most of the time, if they heal anything, it's superficial stuff only, enough that they don't attract too much attention, you see. So, Conner could have been dead for _months_.”

Penelope let that sink in. she sat further back into her chair and nodded vaguely. “But he – _it_ – is gone now. You got rid of it.”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “So, how is he? Gonna be alright?”

She nodded. “According to the doctors, he should be. He's going to have to stay for a couple of days – won't be able to eat anything so they have him on an IV, but if all goes well he should be able to go home in a week.”

“That's good to hear,” Dean told her.

“How're you doing?” Sam asked, putting the chart back.

Penelope fluttered a hand, waving away any concern. “I'm fine,” she told them. “Better than you two. You look like you when five rounds with a meat tenderizer and lost them all.”

Sam shrugged and scratched at his ear. “This is what happens when you tangle with a demon with intent to capture or detain rather than kill. It gets kinda messy.”

“'Kinda?' Master of the understatement, you are. I hope you got those professionally treated, at least,” she stared hard at them.

“We did,” Sam told her. Dean nodded. She had gotten a militant look in her eye that reminded them a bit of Ellen when she went all mother bear. “Promise, we did.”

“Good.” She eyed them for a long moment before nodding. “Good. Something gives me the impression that's not something you do often.”

“We go to hospitals when necessary,” Dean told her. She hummed a disbelieving _mmhmm_. Dean bristled. “We do!”

“Give it a rest,” Sam begged. He settled gently into a corner of the foot of Derek's bed. One hand pressed against his ribs. “Penelope, I’ve gotta be honest with you. We told Spencer that we'd keep looking into something that would reverse the curse – _and we are_ – but I don't think that we're going to find anything... at least nothing permanent.”

Penelope bit her lip. “Why would you think that?” she asked, her voice quavering a little.

Scraping a hand through his hair Sam sighed and shook his head. “We have found _nothing_ that would help. The rituals we tried were all we could find that _might_ do the trick and they did nothing.”

“That last one did something,” Dean muttered.

“Not what it was supposed to,” Sam pointed out, scowling. “That's my point. We don't know what spell Elaine used. Spencer even asked Conner and he said that _even if he could_ he wouldn't reverse it.”

“So the demon couldn't undo it either,” Penelope breathed.

“Not that he admitted to,” Sam said, nodding. “So Spencer's gonna need documents, since there's no record of a four-year-old Spencer Reid out there.”

Penelope nodded. “I... might know a person,” she said vaguely. Sam and Dean smiled at her.

“We hoped you might.”

 

*

 

Dinner with the BAU at Rossi's house was much more comfortable than the last time the Winchesters had been invited over for a meal. For one thing, no one wanted to put them behind bars for serial murder this time. As promised, Rossi cooked, filling the house with mouthwatering scents.

Not everyone from the BAU team was able to come. Penelope begged off, citing emotional exhaustion and a need for a very long lavender-scented bubble bath. Hotch had Jack to go home to. He wanted to spend time with his son – no one blamed him after the case they had just closed. JJ went home to Will and Henri. That left Rossi, Spencer, and the brothers Winchester.

“Got any plans?” Dean asked Spencer quietly while Rossi happily worked in the kitchen.

“For what?” Spencer asked. He had curled in on himself, huddled in the corner of the chesterfield against the arm. His knees were pulled up almost to his chin. Sam was sitting on the other end. Dean had taken a chair that was angled to face them.

“Worst case scenario – if we can't find a way to fix this and break the curse,” Dean elaborated gently. “You're going to need to reinvent yourself – at least on paper. New name, home, everything.”

Spencer nodded. “I know. I don't know what I'm going to do, or even _how_ I'll do it, but I know it'll have to be done.” He cursed softly and buried his head in his knees.

“I might be able to help with some of that,” Rossi said, stepping into the living room. All eyes turned to look at him. “I got a call not too long ago. My godson and his family were in a car accident. He and his wife didn't make it, but their daughter did. She's two years old now and I'm to take custody as soon as I can get out there to pick her up. Wanna be a big brother, Spencer?”

Spencer stared at Rossi. “But... what about work? What about the BAU?”

Rossi shrugged. “I retired once,” he said easily. “I have more than enough money to raise two kids without having to work, and I'm still making money off the books I've written. If I cut back my hours, maybe only work as a consultant, I don't see how there would be a problem.”

“You're a writer?” Sam asked, surprised.

“I've written a few books,” Rossi demurred. “Just think about it, Spencer. It's another option for you.” He smiled fondly at Spencer, then wandered back into the kitchen.

A long moment of silence was broken by Sam asking, “What do you think?”

“I don't know,” Spencer mumbled. “I don't know.”

Dean nodded. “You don't have to make any decisions just yet. Take the night off. Have dinner, watch a movie. Try not to think too much on it. You can go over your options in the morning, if you're feeling up to it.”

Spencer nodded slowly. “I can do that. Yeah. Okay.”

“Good.” Dean got to his feet. “I'll go see if I can be any help in the kitchen.”

Sam and Spencer sat in silence. After a few minutes Spencer shuffled closer to Sam and wedged himself against the tall hunter's side. Sam, a little surprised, just sat there. Spencer wiggled so that Sam's arm was draped over his shoulders.

“Spencer?” Sam asked after a moment.

“I think I need a hug,” Spencer admitted, quiet and ashamed.

Sam understood. “Right. Nothing embarrassing about that,” he said, actively holding Spencer to his side in a one-armed embrace. If Spencer shook in silent tremors, Sam did not call him on it. They sat there, comforter and comforted, until Dean wandered back in to announce that dinner was ready to eat.

The dinner conversation was carefully directed away pressuring Spencer to make any decisions about his future. The only other mention Rossi made of his great-goddaughter was that he would be flying out to Tacoma early in the morning. Since Derek was in the hospital – and would be for a while – Spencer asked where he was supposed to stay. There was a brief discussion on that subject before it was decided that Spencer would stay at Rossi's (after someone came with him to pick up his stuff from Derek's) with Sam and Dean as nominal house-and-babysitters. Since the house that Rossi owned had two above-ground levels and a basement, there was plenty of room.

Bemused at having their lives planned out for them by FBI agents who were _not_ trying to arrest them, Sam and Dean agreed. They had already planned on staying in town for another week or so anyways to help out where they could and to tie up any loose ends, like what to do for Spencer. Staying at Rossi's with Spencer would just cut down on the time spent commuting. It would also afford them the opportunity to be impartial sounding boards for Spencer as he went over what he could do.

“What about tonight?” Spencer asked. “Am I staying here tonight?”

“That might be best,” Rossi said over a glass of red wine. “If that's okay with you? I have a room and you can borrow something to sleep in.”

Spencer nodded slowly. “Alright. Thank you, Dave.”

Rossi's smile was soft and affectionate. “Say nothing of it, kiddo.”

Sam and Dean shared a glance. They would do well together as a family, they thought. It boded well for Spencer's future.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

Rossi was gone for five days. During that time Sam and Dean canvassed the magic shops again for any literature or contacts that might help them in breaking Spencer's curse. Spencer tagged along, not wanting to wander around Quantico under necessary supervision, not when he felt as if he should be allowed to go wherever he pleased without an escort. So, with Sam as chauffeur and Dean explaining things as they came up, Spencer was introduced to more magic shops and stores run by retired hunters. There were more than he would have thought within a half-day's drive of Rossi's house. Spencer found himself enjoying the new world that was opening up to him. All the new information, it made his head spin with a dizzying high.

Spencer loved it.

JJ had picked up his things from Derek's house and dropped them off before she headed off to the office the morning Rossi flew out. Derek had woken up two days later and Spencer spent the better part of the morning and afternoon by his bedside, making sure to fill him in on everything that had happened and how the cover-up was progressing. The fact that the BAU was actually _covering up_ the truth about what had happened on one of their cases had the entire team shaking their heads – not that they were protesting. After all, to tell the truth of what had happened would have landed them all in Psych for a year at least. No one wanted that.

Sam and Dean moved their things form the motel and into Rossi's the morning he left – actually, not long after JJ dropped Spencer's things off. Since there was only the master bedroom – off limits as it was Rossi's own – and one other room made up as a guest bedroom, Sam claimed the sofa – the privilege of having broken ribs – while Dean made up a cozy pallet on the living room floor. He complained every morning and night about having to sleep on the floor with a busted up arm. No one really paid him much attention. He had painkillers and he used them. Spencer kept an eye on his intake. Dean was careful not to take too many. If anything, he didn't take them often enough. Sam quickly got into the habit of reminding him to take his medication, always setting a good example by taking his own at the same time.

Spencer was a littler nervous around the painkillers. Neither Sam nor Dean could miss how he watched them take their pills with wide, haunted eyes. They had seen that look before. Sam had sported that look before. Neither of them asked for details. Spencer didn't offer any either.

Rossi called the day before he was to fly back to warn them that he had ordered some things that were to be delivered to the house.

 _“It's just a few things for Vanessa,”_ he said over the phone. _“Crib, diapers, stuff like that. Could you just sign for everything and maybe move it into the room across from mine? I'll work on cleaning it out for her when I get back.”_

“Sure,” Dean told him, “we can do that. Anything else?”

_“How's Spencer doing?”_

Dean glanced over to where Spencer was reading over Sam's shoulder as they worked their way through an old Latin text.“Good. He's doing good. Hasn't talked much about what he's gonna do, but he has talked about it.He's working with Sam at the moment, reading up on... something. Don't know what. Wanna talk to him?”

 _“No, not right now,”_ Rossi said.

The conversation didn't last long after that. Rossi had to get back to business on his end and Dean let him go without a fight. He deposited the cell phone on the coffee table and dropped down beside Spencer.

“What was that about?” Sam asked curiously.

“That was Rossi. He said that there'd be some deliveries here today. Baby stuff for Vanessa,” Dean informed them.

“Oh,” Sam blinked. “Okay then. What sort of things?”

Dean shrugged. “Cribs and stuff. He didn't really say. Sounded a little distracted. I think he's signing the papers right now. Could be why he's got stuff bought already, if it's 'gettin' things legal' day today.”

“Could be,” Spencer agreed.

Sam closed the book and slid it next to Dean's phone. He got to his feet and, groaning, said, “I'm gonna make myself a sandwich. Either of you guys hungry?”

“Nah,” Dean said, shaking his head.

Spencer nodded. “I am.”

“Mmkay, I'll make one for you too.” Sam shuffled into the kitchen. None of them had left the house that day – and they hadn't any plans to leave either – so Sam and Dean were slouching around in washed-a-million-times soft teeshirts and sweatpants. Spencer hadn't even bothered to get dressed and was still kicking about in his Thor pajamas. When Dean had commented that he liked Spencer's pajamas Spencer thanked him, and then treated him and Sam to a lecture on how the Marvel Comics – and the movies – had gotten the mythology wrong.

It had actually been very entertaining and informative. Dean told him that he had missed his calling as a professor.

“I graduated too young to be a professor,” Spencer had told him easily. “No one would take their professor seriously if he was younger than they were.”

“Good point,” Dean had to concede.

The lecture had, of course, led them to talk about the time that they had actually met Zeus (“He was _such_ a jerk, too!”) and Prometheus (“He'd gotten _such_ a raw deal. It just wasn't right. That poor kid of his, too. The both of them _literally_ _died_ every day!”). Spencer listened, wide-eyed and obviously taking mental notes, to everything they could recall of the debacle.

“I can't believe that they're _actually real_ ,” he breathed at one point.

“Believe it,” Sam advised. “They're not the only ones out there and most of them should have been ganked _centuries_ ago.”

“Amen to that,” Dean seconded.

It was almost four o'clock before the doorbell rang. Spencer had availed himself of a stack of Rossi's books – _not_  the ones he had written, just the ones he had collected – and was tearing through them at however-many thousand words a minute his four-year-old brain could devour. Dean had parked himself in front of the television and was watching _The Princess Bride_. Sam was trolling through his favorite news websites on his laptop for possible cases. Not that he was actively looking for something for himself and Dean to tackle, not in their current condition, it was just a habit.

The doorbell ringing startled all three of them. They had forgotten that there were deliveries to be expected. Sam answered the door and signed for the boxes while Dean and Spencer unashamedly watched, both of them curious as to just what exactly Rossi had bought. They didn't really care if it was a little nosey of them. Sam directed the delivery men to take the boxes upstairs and showed them which room to put them in since neither he nor Dean would be able to get them their themselves and they weren't even got to let Spencer try since he was just so small. Spencer didn't waste energy pouting over that observation. It was the truth, after all.

The delivery men were gratifyingly efficient and soon Dean, Sam, and Spencer were pawing through the boxes, looking at labels and tags. There was indeed a crib which would convert into a child-size bed when it was needed, and a large package of brand-name diapers. There were also sheet sets, blankets, a series of bath products and toys, and a dizzying amount of other sundry items.

“Do kids really need all of this?” Sam asked, looking at the pile of Rossi's purchases.

“Need? Not really,” Dean said, reading the label on a bottle of tear-free shampoo. “Sure does make life easier though if you got 'em.”

“How do you know?” Spencer asked.

“Practically raised Sammy here,” Dean said with a smile twist of a smile.

Spencer frowned at him. “You were _four_ when your mother died,” he said. “Sam was _six months_. Where was your dad?”

“Who knows, who cares,” Sam said shortly. Dean rolled his eyes.

“He was trying to figure out what it was that he had seen in Sammy's nursery before the house burned down around his ears,” he explained. “He was trying to find out what killed mom.”

Spencer was not impressed. “And he left you, a four year old who had just lost his mother, to care for your infant brother?”

“He wasn't exactly Father of the Year,” Sam pointed out.

“Shut up. He did his best,” Dean said defensively.

Sam snorted. He let the subject drop. This was a tired old fight. There was no use in pursuing it again. Dean eyed him warily for a moment before he reached for the box that housed the disassembled crib.

“We should put some of this together,” he suggested. “Rossi's probably gonna be tired when he gets back. Be nice to have at least _some_ things ready when he gets here.”

Spencer leapt to his feet and grinned. “That's a great idea!”

Sam tugged the large, flat box away from Dean. “Give me that. You go find us some tools. Gimp.” Dean 'accidentally' knocked his cast-covered arm lightly against Sam's ribs, forcing a pained hiss from his younger brother. He escaped the room that was to be Vanessa's before Sam could retaliate. Spencer snickered behind a hand.

Between Dean's knowledge of mechanics, Spencer's PhD in Engineering, and Sam's... ability to read the instructions in multiple languages they managed to get the crib put together without having any pieces leftover. They counted it as a job well done. Once the crib was assembled and satisfactorily sturdy (in that when Dean made an effort to wiggle it nothing shifted out of place _at all_ ) the rooted out the mattress, and got it fitted in place. Then came the Great Sheet Debate between Sam and Dean. Neither wanted to put the sheet set that the other had on the mattress. They were so caught up in their own opinions that neither noticed that Spencer had managed to wrangle on his own choice (pale pink with purple pinstripes) onto the mattress. It wasn't until he climbed over the bars and unearthed the bumpers to tie about the bottom inside around the mattress that the Winchesters noticed that they had lost the argument and hadn't even realized. Snickering at them, Spencer climbed back into the crib and tied the white with pink polka dots bumper.

“That's what you get for being slow,” he told them with a puckish grin.

“Punk,” Dean teased. He hooked his good arm under Spencer's when Spencer stood up. As gently as he could he lifted Spencer out of the crib and set him on the floor.

“You shouldn't do that,” Spencer protested mildly. “It’ll aggravate your injuries.”

Dean scoffed. “Try and stop me.”

“I like think that I’m getting to know better than to waste time and energy on something so futile,” Spencer said with a straight face.

Sam gingerly lowered himself to the floor and started the task of sorting the pile of packages. He collected bathing thing in pile, bedding in another, and so on. Dean watched him for a moment before he declared that he was done and was going to go start making something for dinner.

Spencer dropped down onto the floor not far from Sam. He picked up a plastic wrapped toddler's dish set. A cartoon owl stared jauntily back at him. “Do you think I should?” he asked Sam.

“Should what?” Sam asked back.

“Live with Rossi. And Vanessa. Do you think I should?”

Sam studied a bottle of infant Tylenol. “Can you think of any reasons why you shouldn't? I mean, he already knows what happened to you, knew you as an adult so he won't be surprised when you do something out of character for a child, _and_ he's going to be cutting back on his FBI work for Vanessa. Seems like a perfect setup. You won't exactly be putting him out of his way by taking him up on his offer.”

Spencer nodded absently. He already knew that, had mulled it over in his mind more times than he had bothered to count. Sam eyed him sideways.

“Looks like you already know what you're going to do.”

Spencer shrugged. “Maybe. We'll see.”

 

*

 

Vanessa Maria Webber was as Mediterranean-dark as her great-godfather and only four inches shorter than Spencer. Spencer didn't know what to think of that. Since Rossi had parked his car at the airport for the time he had been gone he hadn't needed anyone to come and pick him and Vanessa up when their flight landed at Dulles International. So it wasn't until they arrived home that anyone met the bereaved and transplanted toddler. The BAU team, kept abreast the Rossi's status and travel plans by the source of all knowledge (Penelope), all respected his request to give them some time before introductions were made in order not to overwhelm Vanessa. In anticipation of their arrival Dean had put something together in the kitchen that filled the house with mouthwatering scents all afternoon.

“Something smells delicious,” Rossi commented, dropping his bags by the stairs. He had Vanessa on his hip.

“Pot roast,” Dean told him with a proud smile. “Found your crockpot.”

“I'm glad you did. If it tastes half as good as it smells we're in for a treat.” Rossi shifted Vanessa and set her on her feet. She clung to his hand. Her brown eyes were wide and a little bit wild. It was a look common in children who have had their entire world tipped upside down around their ears. Dean was certain that he and Sam had grown up with that look in their eyes. Rossi started up the introductions. “This is Vanessa Webber. Vanny, this is Dean and the tall one over there on the computer is his brother Sam.”

“Hello Vanessa,” the Winchesters said.

“And this is Spencer,” Rossi finished. Spencer, who had been watching from over the back of an upholstered chair, waved.

“We got some of her things set up for her,” Spencer informed Rossi shyly.

Rossi smiled at him, his shoulders relaxing a little. “Thanks for that. That rest of her bags are sill in the car. Would one of you mind...?”

“Sure thing,” Sam said, getting to his feet. “Me and Dean'll get them.”

Rossi nodded gratefully, scooped up the bags he had dropped, and headed upstairs. Vanessa watched him go, her wide eyes getting a terrified shadow in them. Spencer, watching from his perch on the chair, moved to distract her.

“Hey,” he said, scrambling to get down from the chair. He scurried closer to the little girl. “Do you wanna see a magic trick?”

That's how they were found twenty minutes later, after all the bags were brought in, after Rossi had showered and changed into something more relaxed, and after Sam and Dean had showed him what they had done with the tings he had bought for Vanessa. Vanessa had dropped into a pile on the floor in front of Spencer, who was kneeling on the carpet with his two fists held out in front of him. It was one of those 'now you see it, now you don't' tricks that were purely sleight of hand. He was flashing about a quarter. One moment it was there, the next his hands were miraculously empty, and then – _Abracadabra!_ – there it was again!

Vanessa reached out to make sure that the quarter was real. Spencer let her hold it for a moment before reclaiming it – toddlers shouldn't play with coins, they could swallow them and choke, or shove them up their nose, or something else like that. He remembered doing something much the same with Henri when his godson was younger. The childish and innocent wonderment made Spencer smile. He showed her the trick again.

“Magic tricks,” Dean said, dropping onto the chesterfield. “Nifty.”

Spencer looked up and frowned. Both he and Sam looked in pain. “You should take something,” he urged. “You look like something the cat dragged in... a week ago.”

Dean grunted and stretched out lengthways on the cushions. Sam, who hadn't sat down yet, grimaced and shuffled off to find their medications. He returned, prodded Dean into taking his pills, and melted gingerly into a chair.

“I need a nap,” Sam complained under his breath.

“Lazy,” Dean accused him, his eyes closed and his hands clasped over his stomach.

Sam rolled his eyes and tossed a cushion at his brother's head. Dean twitched when it connected, but otherwise ignored him.

“Shiny!” Vanessa declared, snatching at the quarter. Spencer, startled, let her grab it. She gripped in both hands and grinned. “Shi _ny_!”

“That's right. It is a shiny quarter,” Spencer confirmed. “We should go show it to Rossi. Do you want to come with me and show it to Rossi?”

Vanessa frowned at him. It wasn't an _unhappy_ frown, so much as a confused one. Spencer hesitated. What had he done?

“How about Uncle Dave,” Sam suggested. “Vanessa, do you want to show your new quarter to Uncle Dave?”

Vanessa, who had turned in a rapid twist at her name, regarded Sam curiously. She turned back to Spencer, transferred the coin into one chubby fist, took his hand in the other, and almost bent in half pushing herself to her feet. Spencer got up as well and walked with her to the stairs.

“Up?” she asked quietly, pointing.

“I'd think so,” Spencer nodded. Vanessa let go of his hand and started climbing the stairs in big steps, lifting her little feet high in order to clear the top of the stair and using her hands on the steps above to spider-climb upwards. Following, Spencer watched with a careful eye.

His mind was made up.


	18. Epilogue

The BAU and their families met for dinner with Rossi, Vanessa, Spencer, Sam, and Dean at JJ and Will's house a week later. Vanessa had fast attached herself to Spencer's side, declaring him _hers_. Spencer was alright with that. She was not an annoying child and it was interesting to track her progress as she acclimatized herself to her new living situation. It was also interesting to watch Rossi learning the role of father. Interesting and reassuring.

Derek had been released from the hospital on strict orders to take it easy and to watch what sort of foods he ate since his insides were still healing. He was up and walking, albeit gingerly and with a little help by way of an arm slung over Penelope's shoulders. Penelope, for her part, glowed. She happily helped her best friend, her brother in heart, to a chair, then announced to Spencer – and the room – that the papers were in place. Spencer lit up and threw his arms around her in an enthusiastic embrace. Everyone looked on in amusement as their miniature Dr Reid lost all composure in what looked like a fit of joyful madness. It was more than just a little adorable.

“Whoa, what's all this?” Derek asked with a laugh.

“Can I tell them?” Penelope asked Spencer. Spencer nodded. Penelope turned to face everyone and smiled proudly. “People, may I introduce you to our newly minted Owen Spencer Rossi.”

There was an outcry from the BAU, pleased and surprised. Spencer allowed himself to be patted on the back, hugged, and congratulated. Rossi had to weather similar treatment when he confirmed that yes, he had adopted Spencer alongside Vanessa.

“I'm happy for you, man,” Dean told him when the initial tidal wave had receded. “I think this'll be good for you.”

Spencer smiled up at the hunter. “Thanks,” he said.

“Me too,” Sam added. “Don't envy you having a little sister, though. I've heard they're trouble.”

“Can't be any worse than Sammy,” Dean tossed in with a pseudo-serious mien. “Sammy's the worst girl out there.”

“Shut up!”

“Make me.”

Spencer laughed loud at their bickering. He let them go at it and wandered over to JJ and snuggled into her side. She smiled lovingly at him and pressed him close.

“You know you'll always be my best friend, right Jayge?” he asked her softly.

“And you'll always be mine, Spence,” she assured him. “It's just a shame I can't trade on that and get you to baby-sit Henri anymore.”

“Yeah. I'm going to miss that.”

JJ looked over to where Henri was playing. “So will he. But hey, you two can have play dates now. Almost the same thing...” she winked at him. Spencer elbowed her in the ribs.

Will approached them, looking fond and a little cagey. He sat down across from Spencer and passed over a padded mailing envelope. “Hey, got something for you,” he told Spencer. Spencer looked at the envelope, postmarked from New Orleans.

“What is it?” he asked, flipping it over in his hands.

“Jus' a little something you might find useful.”

Curious, Spencer tore open the envelope and tipped its contents into his lap. A blue silk bag spilled out. Inside the bag was a silver medallion with curious symbols etched in both the face and the back, hanging on a hand-smithed silver link chain. Spencer turned it over in his hands, examining it carefully.

“What is it?” he asked absently.

“Something that should help mitigate that curse you're under,” Will said. The whole room paused.

JJ blinked and frowned in confusion at her husband. “Honey?”

“What?” Will asked her and the room at large. “I'm from New Orleans. I figured something strange was going on when I first met Dean and Sam here. They ain't exactly names that no one knows, if you know the right people. Back home there were a couple cops that if you came across anything... out of the ordinary, they'd take the case. They passed around the word to those who would listen when Dean and Sam here made FBI's Most Wanted, that they were on the up and up and if they were in town then to get out of their way because something not human was making trouble.”

“Really?” Sam asked.

“That's... kinda awesome,” Dean added. They looked stunned.

Will shrugged. “Magic's a thing on the Bayou. Ever been?”

They both shook their heads. “Can't say we have,” Dean told him. “Never seemed to catch a case that would bring us in.”

“That's fine. Anyways, when I met you two, and JJ introduced me to little Spencer here, I put two and two together and got in contact with Mrs Sophia who used to live down the street from where I grew up. She knows about curses and such and sent that,” he nodded at the medallion. “Said that it would negate it for forty-eight hours every lunar month. It was the best she could find.”

Spencer stared down at the medallion in reverent awe. “Will,” he choked out around a sudden uprising of emotion. “I don't know what to say. Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it,” Will told him. “I'm just sorry that this happened to you.”

“Unexpected hazard of the job, I suppose,” Spencer told him. “It's seems to be turning out okay though.”

Will smiled, his eyes crinkling a little. “I sure hope so.”

“Well,” JJ said, grinning, “this is turning out to be an even better evening than we thought!”

Spencer wiggled away from JJ and pounced on Will, hugging him tightly. Will laughed and hugged back. Spencer might be JJ's best friend, but Will had gotten quite fond of him as well. He was family. It was just that simple.

And that was the best thing of all.

 

*

 

Dean got the Impala loaded up onto a flatbed trailer while Sam collected the Evidence boxes that contained everything that the car had contained. Penelope – with Hotch's reluctant permission – had promised to loose all the files and paperwork connected to the car. Before they said their final goodbyes to the BAU the Winchesters made sure that the entire team had their numbers and admonished them to call if something super weird happened on their watch again. Spencer and Sam finally managed to play a game of chess on a proper board. Dean shook his head at them and called them massive geeks only to turn around and gush (in a many manner, of course) over Spencer's hand-knit Fourth Doctor's scarf.

Sam mocked him. Dean didn't really care.

Eventually though, they had to go. With Baby back in their hands and all trace of their involvement and presence in the city being scrubbed by a first rate hacker, Dean and Sam said their goodbyes.

It was a long road back to Kansas. Dean climbed behind the wheel of the flatbed truck, determined to drive in spite of his broken arm, and cranked up the music. Sam tossed their bags into the back of the cab and got into the passenger's seat. It was time to go home.


End file.
